Song of the Nightingale
by CaptainHooksGirl
Summary: 'Death is a great price to pay for a red rose,' cried the Nightingale, 'and Life is very dear to all…Yet Love is better than Life, and what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man' Oscar Wilde Romance/Tragedy/Spiritual
1. Prologue

**Author's Note: This story was inspired by a suite of sources, most notably the film "One More Kiss" starring Gerard Butler and the 2004 film version of _Phantom_, though there are also several obvious nods to Leroux, Kay, and _Love Never Dies_, etc. Because I have borrowed from so many different sources, I will not list them all here in the introduction, but for the most part I have tried to give credit where credit is due for sources that _Phantom_ fans may not necessarily be familiar with. Long story short, I OWN NOTHING! **

**This is my first real attempt at tragedy, so I'd appreciate your input. I will probably be posting once a day, but no promises. **

**Happy reading! :)**

**~CaptainHooksGirl~**

**Song of the Nightingale**

_'Death is a great price to pay for a red rose,' cried the Nightingale, 'and Life is very dear to all…Yet Love is better than Life, and what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man?'_

~Oscar Wilde~

** Prologue**

She stood on the precipice with a surprisingly calm look on her face—eyes blissfully closed, head tilted back, arms open wide in the wind. Paris was quiet now, the golden flicker of the streetlamps the only sign of movement in the darkness. There would be no one to see her fall, no one to watch as she dropped like a stone more than a hundred feet from the top of the abandoned opera house. Briefly, she considered what it would feel like to jump, to step off the edge and into the air caught up in a free-fall with nothing but the breeze between her and the ground. Was that what it felt like to fly, she wondered? She imagined the brush of angels' wings against her skin and the rush of the wind in her ears as the sheer ecstasy of weightlessness overcame any fears of falling, the winged figures on the roof suddenly come to life and carrying her away. She smiled peacefully at the thought, envisioning eternal rest in one particular angel's arms. She could almost hear his voice calling her name on the breeze.

A year ago she'd stood in this very spot, marveling at the stars and making promises of love to a childhood sweetheart she realized too late she'd long outgrown. A year ago, the choice had seemed simple and she'd thought she had forever to live.

But forever is an awfully long time, and life is often short.


	2. An Unexpected Visitor

**Chapter One: An Unexpected Visitor**

Erik sat at the manager's desk of the newly erected opera house skimming over the mass of legal papers he still had to sign. His joint ownership of the company with a Mr. Henry Abbey was still being finalized, but Abbey was rarely in the office, having other business matters to attend to related to the social end of things, leaving Erik primarily in charge of the productions—an arrangement that both men found agreeable. [1] Construction on the Metropolitan Opera had begun almost a year ago shortly after his arrival in the U.S. with the help of Madame Giry and her daughter Meg, who had somehow managed to pull him out of the mire of severe depression and convinced him to start anew. Here, no one knew about the Opera Ghost or the Devil's Child, and although the people had initially been wary of the strange masked man, once he'd demonstrated his architectural abilities and produced enough money to make even the wealthiest New Yorkers' jaws drop—courtesy of the Palais Garnier's former managers—his odd choice of accessories was quickly overlooked. If anything, the mask had become a symbol of his mystery and mystique, a sort of trademark that was recognized throughout the city as an indicator of the quality of his blueprints, which he had been selling in an attempt to earn an honest living that he could use to support himself and the Girys.

He'd attempted compositions as well but found that without Christine in his life, the music simply wouldn't come. He had no inspiration, no reason to sing—as if his own personal Angel of Music had died the night she left. Once he'd tried to play a song on the grand piano in their suite to drown out the sound of his dark thoughts, but it had ended up being a song that he'd written specifically for her, and if anything, it had made matters worse. He hadn't touched the instrument since. Even now he had his doubts about opening his own opera house. Music reminded him of _her_, and that was something he wasn't ready to face. But the quiet solitude he'd lived in since Christine's departure was making him restless, and the silence was driving him mad.

_Christine_.

Even the name was enough to awaken the dormant feelings of pain and despondency he'd worked so hard to push to the very back of his mind. He'd tried to forget—he really had!—but the memories refused to leave him in peace, and time and time again he'd find heartache bubbling up to the surface again. Some days he couldn't find the will to get out of bed. Some days he couldn't find the will to live. It was days like those that he wished he'd perished in the fire, that he'd simply given up and allowed the genedarmes to put an end to his misery. But inevitably, Madame Giry would show up and, depending on her mood, either mercifully turn away potential customers with the excuse that he wasn't feeling well or rather rudely drag him out of bed so that he was forced to face another day.

She didn't know about the morphine yet, but he had a feeling that if she ever found out, he'd be getting a lot more of the latter treatment than the former. He'd been clean for years, but Christine's rejection had been such harsh blow to his heart that once he came across a doctor willing to accept a bribe, he'd again sought solace in the comforting release of the drug's pain-numbing effects. It helped some, giving him enough relief to resume a moderately normal lifestyle and focus on his work, but what had started out as an occasional habit was slowly morphing into an addiction as he found himself becoming increasingly dependent on its calming ability. And Erik hated depending on anything.

It was in this rather irritated state of mind that he heard a quiet knock at the office door. He cursed softly under his breath, not bothering to look up from the papers in his hand.

_Antoinette must not have finished locking up yet._

"If you're here for the auditions, I'm afraid we're closed. Come back tomorrow."

"I'm not here for auditions."

Erik froze. _I know that voice._ He dared not lower the papers from in front of his face, afraid of what he knew he wouldn't see. _It's just the morphine wearing off. She's not really there._

"Angel?"

Erik jerked his head up, surprised to see the vision he'd been imagining for months right before his very eyes. Slowly, he lowered the papers to the desk and stood, walking toward her as if he were approaching a frightened animal. When at last his trembling hand came to rest on her shoulder and she didn't disappear, it took every ounce of his strength to control the flood of emotions that assaulted him. He dared to brush a curl out of her eyes.

"You're real," he whispered hoarsely.

Inwardly, he cursed himself for making such an obvious observation. Here was the woman he'd been missing nearly every day of his pitiful existence for the past year, and all he could manage to say to her was an affirmation that she was not just another one of his morphine-induced dreams.

She smiled softly, searching his eyes for some unknown emotion. "Yes, Angel. I'm real."

But when she lifted her hand toward the mask, he quickly turned away, resuming an attitude of cold indifference. "Why are you here?" he demanded.

"Because I—" She paused mid-sentence, as if contemplating whether or not to tell him some vital piece of information. "Because I wanted to see you," she whispered.

He gave a harsh laugh. "You wanted to see me? And what does the boy think of this? Does your _husband_," he spat the word, "know you're here?"

"I have no husband."

Erik stiffened but said nothing.

"Raoul was—and still is—a dear friend. But I have come to realize that that is all he will ever be to me." She wrung her hands nervously, uncomfortable with his continued silence. "I came here on a whim of sorts. It was something I've wanted to do for a long time—to visit another country. I'd heard rumors that Madame Giry and Meg had come to America, so I decided to come here…hoping that when I found them I'd find you. When I saw an advertisement for a new opera house…then I knew."

When he still did not respond, she started to sing.

_I should have known that you'd be here._

_I should have known it all along._

_They tried to tell me you were dead,_

_But I knew that they were wrong._

Erik whirled to face her, eyes burning with rage and pain.

_How dare you try and claim me now!_

_How dare you come invade my life!_

He grabbed her roughly by the shoulders. "Do you have any idea what it has been like for me this past year? Spending e_very_ waking hour and _every_ moment of sleep dreaming of what might have been and cursing myself for ever believing that you could possibly be mine?!" She could practically feel the venom seeping through his words. "I haven't been able to sleep in peace for _months_. I haven't played or written a song in almost a year. And now you show up here, expecting me to act as though nothing has happened, tormenting me with your presence when I know that you are incapable of loving me!"

He turned away again, his breathing heavy with emotion. He closed his eyes. "If you have ever cared for me at all, then you will leave me in peace."

Christine hesitantly stepped forward, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Oh, Angel…My dear Angel…"

_On that night when the world thought you dead_

_On that night with thoughts of you in my head_

_I came to find where you hid._

_I won't deny that I did._

_That long ago night…._

"That night…." Erik slowly turned around, hardly daring to believe that he had understood. The anger had drained from his eyes, replaced by a desperate pleading hope. "You came back."

Christine nodded. "I had to know that you were safe. I searched everywhere I could think of, but by the time I got there, you were already gone. For a while, I feared the worst, but when the genedarmes didn't report finding anyone, I felt certain you must have escaped. Of course, I had no idea where you might have fled. Eventually, I gave up looking."

Erik shook his head in disbelief. "What made you change your mind? Why start searching again now?"

Christine looked down. This was the one question she'd been trying to avoid. She took a deep breath. "I'm dying, Angel."

Erik took a step back, the visible side of his face having paled to match the white porcelain mask. When he spoke, his usually commanding voice was unnaturally shaky. "What?"

She forced herself to meet his gaze. "A few months ago, I started getting headaches. I didn't think much of it at first, but they kept getting worse. Then I started losing my balance—falling down the stairs for no apparent reason or feeling dizzy all of a sudden. I was tired all the time, no matter how much I slept…." She trailed off. "Though we eventually broke off the engagement, Raoul continued to check up on me." She failed to mention, of course, that she'd had to rely on her childhood friend to pay for her apartment, considering that her life savings had literally gone up in smoke when the opera house burned. "One day," she continued, "he found me in the floor, shaking uncontrollably. I was so scared…. He insisted, then, on taking me to the doctor."

As much as he hated the vicomte, Erik found himself suddenly very grateful for the boy's consideration…and irritated with himself for not having been there to help. "And?"

"They think it's…it's something wrong with my brain…a growth of some sort. There's nothing they can do to safely remove it…." She sighed. "I don't have much time left, but what little I do have, I'd like to share it…with you."

In one foul swoop, Erik's mood had gone from overjoyed to complete devastation. "So you only came back out of pity…so you wouldn't have to die with a guilty conscience…."

Christine's silence seemed to confirm his conclusion. But regardless of her reasons for coming, he couldn't deny that he was glad to see her.

He licked his lips hesitantly, hardly attempting to hide the quaver in his voice. "How long?" When she didn't answer immediately, he took her by the shoulders again—this time more softly than before—and looked into her eyes. "How much longer do you have, Christine?"

She looked away. "Perhaps a month. Two months at most."

Erik's hands slipped silently from her shoulders. He walked over to the desk, letting out a sigh as he gripped either side of the table and hung his head. "You may stay…as long as you wish."

[1] Henry Abbey was the real manager of the Metropolitan Opera during its inaugural season.


	3. Settling In

**Chapter Two: Settling In**

Erik opened the door to the apartment and ushered Christine inside. It was a lovely little flat with a small kitchen off to the left that gradually faded into a sitting room with a floral pattern sofa and chairs as well as a grand piano. Down the hall were four bedrooms, two on either side, and a shared bathroom at the end. Judging by the quality of the furniture and the cleanliness of the rooms, Christine guessed that it was probably one of the nicest apartments New York had to offer. But it was strange seeing the former Phantom outside of his underground realm, and she suddenly found herself longing for candlelight shimmering on a glassy lake, cool mist on her skin, and the echoes of organ music five floors beneath the Paris Opera House.

Her disappointment did not go unnoticed, though Erik assumed it was for other reasons. The girl was dying, for goodness' sake! She should be at home in Paris in the arms of a man with a perfect face and perfect past, not locked away in some New York apartment with a deranged, deformed psychopath who wanted her more than was probably safe. He didn't know how long he could take living in the same house with her without behaving immorally. But she had come to him of her own free will, and Erik was too selfish to turn her away. He sighed.

_Just the fact that she's here should be enough. Be happy that she wanted to see you at all. _

He led her down the hall to the second bedroom on the left, which was currently unoccupied, Madame Giry and Meg having taken up residence in the two bedrooms to the right. It briefly crossed his mind that there would be only a single wall between his room and hers, but he quickly shook off the thought before it could go any further.

"This will be your room," he informed her. "Meg will help you with your things. I need to speak with Antoinette for a moment."

She nodded her thanks before stepping over the threshold, letting out a little gasp of surprise at the beauty of the room. A canopy bed sat in the center of the room, piled high with pillows that matched the pale blue coverlet and sheets. To the right there was a chest of drawers and a small desk that looked like it should have been a vanity…but, of course, there was no mirror. She smiled to herself at the thought.

_My Angel's face is not so horrible to look at. _

In fact, if she was being completely honest, she rather thought that—aside from the flawed half of his face—he was rather handsome. She blushed.

_Don't think like that!_ She scolded herself. _It wouldn't be fair to get his hopes up. Not when your time is so short…._

Going back to her survey of the room, she noticed a wardrobe in the far left corner and a little window just to the side of the bed, its wispy gauze-like curtains barely brushing the antique mahogany bedpost. A small bedside table completed the room.

She ran a hand over the silky bedspread, relishing the smooth coolness of the fabric beneath her fingertips.

"Like it?"

Christine looked up to see her best friend leaning against the door frame.

"It's magnificent," she breathed.

Meg smiled sadly. "He designed it with you in mind, you know." She sat down on the bed and patted the spot beside her for Christine to sit down. "He's really missed you…. We all have."

Christine returned the smile, leaning her head against her friend's shoulder. "It's good to be home."

xxxxx

Erik was pacing the kitchen when Madame Giry walked in, having checked on the girls and bid them goodnight, the quiet tapping of her cane against the hardwood floor and the soft rustle of her skirts the only warning of her approach. Erik paused mid-step and pulled a chair out from the table, collapsing into its wooden frame and resting his elbows on the table, cradling his head in his hands. He sighed deeply.

"I can't do this again, Antoinette."

The former ballet mistress took a seat beside him, laying a hand on his arm. "She never meant to hurt you, Erik."

He sighed again but did not lift his head. "I know." He kept his voice low, knowing that the walls in the apartment were much thinner than one might think. "I love her so much…but she will never feel the same." He gave a sort of half-laugh. "I suppose it doesn't really matter now, though, does it?"

"She came back for you, didn't she? She wants to spend her last days on earth with _you_. That must mean something, non?"

"The only thing she will ever feel for me is pity."

"How do you know?" Giry challenged. "Have you asked her?"

"Pity is the only kindness _anyone_ has ever shown me. I was foolish to ever think she could be different."

The older woman crossed her arms. "You think _pity_ is the reason I was willing to risk _everything_ to help you—not once but _twice_?! You think _pity_ is what motivated Christine to cross an entire ocean by herself?!"

Erik slammed his fists against the table. "She's _dying_, Antoinette! I can't afford to be any more attached to her than I already am…." When he looked up, she could see the unshed tears sparkling in his eyes. "What am I to do?"

The ballet mistress took his hands in hers.

_Just love. Just live._

_Just give all you can give._

_And take the love that you deserve…._

"Just enjoy the time you have with her. That is all that any of us can do."

"What about the opera? I still have to host the auditions. They'll need to rehearse, and the production is due to make a grand opening run next month…." He shuddered. _She might not even be _alive_ next month!_

"I will see to it that all is taken care of," Madame Giry assured him. She lowered her voice to barely a whisper. "There are more important things in life than music."

Erik nodded solemnly.

xxxx

Long after the women had all gone to bed, he remained at the kitchen table, penning a new song for the first time in ages. When at last he was satisfied with the composition, he folded it neatly and tucked it away in his pocket, heading for the room just across the hall from Madame Giry's. Christine had left the door to her room slightly ajar, and he couldn't help but linger a moment, peering in through the crack at her sleeping form. Dressed in a white gown with a cascade of dark curls framing her face, she truly looked more like an angel than anything he'd ever seen. He watched the gentle rise and fall of her chest with great relief, terrified that any moment she might stop breathing. Sighing, he tore himself away from the angelic vision, locking himself away in his own room where he finally fell apart.

When at last he fell asleep, it was with an extra dose of morphine in his veins and tear stains on his cheeks.


	4. Getting Reacquainted

**Author's Note: This chapter goes into a little bit of Erik's past, and because I borrowed from several versions _Phantom _in creating this story, the timeline is a little wacky. Although the 2004 version places the events of _Phantom_ in the years 1870-1871, the Franco-Prussian war was actually going on during that time. I decided for the purposes of this story, I'd move the events forward in time so that Erik could have time to visit Persia, etc., before coming back to the opera house in Paris. The Metropolitan Opera actually opened in 1883, so I guess you could say that this story takes place then, but I'd just leave it kind of vague and say that it's set sometime in the 1880s. To sum things up, although "Song of the Nightingale" takes place in the 1880s, it has only been ONE year since the events of _Phantom_. Hope that clears things up! Enjoy the next chapter! :)**

**~CaptainHooksGirl~**

**Disclaimer: Sadly, I still don't own any of this...**

**Chapter Three: Getting Reacquainted**

The following morning, Erik awoke to find Christine sitting at the kitchen table with Meg and Madame Giry chatting and laughing as if they were still back in Paris and nothing had changed—and in a way, he supposed, it hadn't. They were in a different place, in a different time, but the Girys were still the closest thing she had to family. He still loved her. And she still did not return the feelings. In that respect, nothing had changed. But now she was living on borrowed time—a freshly plucked flower with an expiration date, slowly wilting day by day. And that changed everything.

The melodic sound of her lighthearted laughter was both a salve and a scourge for his broken heart. A year ago, he would have done anything to have her willingly within his home. Now here she was, bright-eyed and beautiful and _alive_ and so close to being _his_…but for how long? How long would it be before those rosy cheeks lost their color, before that angelic voice was silenced forever and those dark eyes closed in an eternal sleep? He would gladly give up the privilege of her presence—give up his very life!—if he knew that it could somehow save her. But this was one situation that was beyond his control, and so, steeling himself against the inevitable heartache, he forced what he hoped to be a respectfully aloof expression on the visible side of his face as he approached them, ignoring the fact that their incessant chatter fell to hushed silence the moment he entered the room. Walking over to the stove, he quietly poured himself a cup of tea.

Christine was the first to speak up. "Good morning."

He could practically hear the smile in her voice even though he had his back to her. He wasn't quite ready to make eye contact. "Did you sleep well?" he asked.

"Yes." In truth, she hadn't slept much at all due to what she had come to accept as a perpetual headache…but that wasn't his fault. "The bed was quite comfortable, and the room is beautiful. Thank you for letting me stay."

Erik wasn't quite sure how to respond. _She's thanking _me_ for letting her stay?! I should be the one thanking _her_! _

Christine took another sip from the teacup in her hand, and Erik suddenly found himself staring at the way her lips caressed the porcelain rim, the way her fingers wrapped lovingly around the curve of the handle.

_Oh, to handle that cup! To touch the spot that her perfect lips have graced with their sweet innocence!_

He tried not to think about the time those same lips had touched his own, but the memory was difficult to suppress. It had been the best and worst moment of his entire life—the moment that broke him and the moment that saved him. If he closed his eyes, he could still taste the salt of their mingling tears and feel the soft stroke of her fingertips against his marred and maskless cheek….

"Angel…? Erik?"

Erik faltered, embarrassed at having been caught daydreaming. "Forgive me, Christine. I was just—Did you just call me Erik?"

Christine blushed and looked down. "Madame Giry told me it was your given name…but if you'd rather I didn't use it, then—"

"No! No, it's fine…. I'm simply not accustomed to hearing it from you."

_Erik._ He liked the way she said it, as if she were addressing an ordinary man. Before, he had taken great pleasure in being her Angel, but such immortal beings are ethereal and unattainable. To be a man, flawed though men may be, was to be warm and real and temptingly tangible.

Christine dared to look up, still slightly uncomfortable under the intensity of his gaze. "Since I'm new to the area, I thought I might go into town today…." She blushed again. "Perhaps…perhaps you could show me around…?"

Erik blinked in surprise. "O-of course," he stammered. "What would you like to see?"

She shrugged, smiling. "Whatever you think is most interesting."

xxxx

Despite the chill in the air, the bright winter sun was shining gaily in the ice-blue sky when Erik and Christine headed out for their walk, both a bit nervous about spending a significant amount of time alone together for the first time since the night of the fire. It was extremely awkward at first, Erik being unsure of whether to offer her his arm, and Christine frowning in quiet disappointment when he didn't. They walked in silence for nearly a block, neither quite sure of what to say, neither willing to make the first move.

At long last, Christine took a deep breath. "So, I heard you plan to open the opera house next month…. What will you be showing?"

"_Faust_." He frowned. _How ironic._

"And have you filled any of the roles yet?"

"Most of them. The lead roles have already been assigned."

She hesitated. "May I ask who will be playing Marguerite?"

He felt the color rise in his cheeks, suddenly very grateful for the protective barrier of the mask on the side of his face nearest her. He'd hoped she wouldn't ask. "A Miss Christina Nilsson." [1]

Christine stopped walking and turned to look at him. "The Swedish singer who debuted in _La Traviata_ at the Théâtre Lyrique?"

Erik looked mildly surprised. The similarities between the young soprano he'd chosen to play the lead and Christine were no coincidence, and the realization that she was familiar with the singer only furthered his embarrassment.

"Yes. You've heard of her, then?"

Christine pointedly avoided his eyes. "Yes…. She's supposed to be very good."

There was a hint of sadness in her voice, a longing that he hadn't been expecting…and was that _jealousy_ he heard? Did she honestly believe that she had been replaced by another in his heart? The thought gave him a surge of hope.

"Not as good as you," he assured her.

She blushed and looked down, suppressing a shudder as the winter wind swept back the dark curls from her face.

He hesitated for a moment before removing his outer jacket and wrapping it around her shoulders, careful not to touch her any more than was necessary lest she recoil from his hand.

"Here."

She smiled, grateful for the additional layer that separated her skin from the icy breeze. It was still warm from the heat of his body, and the intimacy of the gesture—though innocent in nature—took her by surprise.

"Thank you."

She hugged the coat tighter around her frame, and Erik noticed for the first time that she looked significantly paler and thinner than he'd remembered. There were dark circles beneath her eyes, the girlish spark of energy and enthusiasm replaced by a tiredness that made her look much older. He felt a stab of pain within his heart.

_Oh, my poor Christine…._

He was shaken from his reverie by yet another curious question from the girl—no, _woman_—walking beside him.

"So…where exactly are we going?"

"Central Park," he answered. He nodded in the direction they were heading. "It's just up ahead."

Christine's eyes widened in delight as the trees came into view. "Oh, it's lovely!"

"It's one of my favorite places in town. It's a relatively quiet place compared to the rest of the city. I like to come here sometimes just to sit and think."

She considered his words thoughtfully. "Why did you stop composing?"

Erik sighed. "A bird sings only when he is defending his home or calling to his mate. When he has lost both, he no longer has a reason to sing."

Christine dropped her eyes guiltily. "I'm sorry."

"You're here now," he whispered. "That's all that matters."

For a few minutes, they walked in silence, each lost their own thoughts. This was more than Erik had ever hoped for. Strolling through the park with Christine at his side, he felt almost normal. They still weren't touching, but she didn't seem averse to his company—in fact, _she_ had asked _him_ to join her!

_I want to have a wife like everyone else, and to take her out on Sundays_….

It seemed an eternity since he'd spoken those very words. She had been afraid of him then, but now it did not seem like such a stretch to imagine such a possibility. But then she stopped suddenly, bringing a hand up to her eyes, and for a moment, he thought she was going to cry.

"Christine," he asked worriedly, wondering what he'd done to offend her, "are you alright?"

She shook her head. "It's just this headache…. I'm not feeling well. Do you mind if we sit down for a moment?"

"Of course."

He led her to a bench just to the side of the walkway. She sighed as she sat down, massaging her temples.

Erik frowned. "Perhaps we should return."

"No, no! I'm enjoying our day out," she assured him. "I just need to rest for a bit." She gave a half-hearted laugh. "Maybe I should have had coffee instead of tea this morning. It seems to help with the headaches sometimes…."

Erik looked surprised. "I didn't know you liked coffee."

It was a trivial thing, really—a fact that wasn't particularly important—and yet, he was frustrated with himself for being unaware of it. He'd thought he knew everything about Christine—her history, her likes and dislikes, her adorable little quirks—but the more he thought about it, the more it became clear that he _didn't_ know as much as he'd thought he did. He didn't know her favorite food. He didn't know her middle name. Until Raoul had become the Palais Garnier's benefactor, he hadn't even known about her childhood friendship with the vicomte! The thought troubled him.

Christine laughed again without raising her head from her hands. "Don't fret over it. Until this morning, I didn't even know _your _name!"

She realized, then, that for two people who had been acquainted for so long, they really didn't know much about each other at all. She sat up, forcing herself to ignore the constant pressure on her brain.

"I have an idea. Why don't we pretend we've never met? We could introduce ourselves and then ask each other questions as a way of getting reacquainted—make it a game of sorts."

Erik shifted uncomfortably. He wasn't sure he liked the idea of being questioned about his past and personal interests—particularly with Christine's insatiable curiosity. It sounded more like an interrogation than a game. But the spark of childish excitement in her eyes was enough to silence any protests he could think of.

Seeing his hesitation, she decided to start.

"I'll go first." She cleared her throat and held out her hand. "Hello. My name is Christine Daaé. I'm eighteen years old and originally from Sweden, though I've spent most of my life in France. I was orphaned at seven and came to live at the Paris Opera House dormitories where I eventually became the lead soprano after much assistance from my _brilliant _music teacher." She paused to smile at him, blushing. "I was engaged to marry the Vicomte de Chagny—a childhood friend of mine—but ended the relationship when I realized that I thought of him as more of a brother than a fiancé. Soon afterwards, I came to New York in search of a very dear friend…." She looked up. "Your turn."

The way she said _friend_ was more than a little discouraging, but Erik did his best to play along. He took her hand, glancing up briefly to obtain her permission before gently pressing his lips to the back of it. He had no right to mar her perfect porcelain skin with the touch of his twisted excuse of a face, but he couldn't resist taking the opportunity to kiss her once again—even if it was only her hand. He felt a slight tremor snake its way down her arm and immediately withdrew, embarrassed at having elicited such an open display of disgust. Of course, the shiver could have just as easily been from the cold or even—dare he think it—pleasure. But Erik refused to acknowledge such a possibility, and resigned himself to be content with her presence, if not her love. He sighed and looked away, releasing her hand. If she feared his touch now, how much more would she recoil if she knew all that he'd done?

"Mademoiselle, I think it best that you remain ignorant of my former life. Already you know more than most, and whatever little respect or dignity I have left in your mind, I would prefer not to further degrade it."

Christine chewed her lower lip. This was not the lighthearted conversation she'd been hoping for. "May I at least know your full name?"

He sighed again, staring at the clasped hands he rested in his lap. "Erik isn't even my real name. I never had one. My mother was so disgusted with my face that she refused to name me, so the priest who christened me named me after himself."

He knew without looking that Christine's eyes were filled with that most detestable of emotions called pity. _Pity! Pity! Always pity and never love! Will no one ever see me as more than a horrid demon to be feared and hated or an injured beast to be pitied?! Will I never be appreciated as a _man_? Oh, Christine…._ He clenched his fists, forcing himself to ignore the rising anger in his chest.

Noticing his internal distress, Christine laid a hesitant hand on his arm, and he sucked in a sharp breath of surprise. Her hand was resting over the place where he regularly administered the injections of morphine, and he couldn't suppress a slight grimace. But the shock he felt far outweighed the pain.

_She's touching me! She's voluntarily touching me. Only a few moments ago, she shuddered at the brush of my lips against her skin, but now she is touching me of her own free will! Is it possible that what I thought was disgust was something else?_ _Could she possibly—NO! Even if her feelings go beyond friendship and pity—which is highly unlikely— I cannot return them. It nearly killed me to lose her before…I cannot afford to love someone I will inevitably lose again._

"And your surname?"

Christine's question caught him off guard. He'd become so caught up in his own thoughts that he'd almost forgotten they were having a conversation.

A surname. A name that connects you to a family and gives you a history. A name that defines who you are, where you came from, and where you belong. A name a man shared with his beloved to claim her as his own—and he had none.

Erik bowed his head shamefully. "I don't have one."

Christine protested. "Surely your parents—"

He cut her off. "I left home at an early age. If I ever did have a last name, I don't remember it." He shrugged. "Since I came here, I've been posing as Antoinette's brother. Most of the people here know me as Erik Gérard." [2]

Christine furrowed her brow, interested. "Gérard?"

"It was her maiden name."

She seemed somewhat surprised. "How do you know all of this?"

"Antoinette is one of the few people I truly consider a friend," he admitted. In fact, aside from Nadir, she was quite possibly his _only_ friend. And he hadn't seen the Persian in years. "She helped me escape the mob that night. Years before, she rescued me from a similar plight."

That was before he'd had to leave Paris. Before the war had forced him from his home and back into the streets. Before Persia. He shuddered at the memory. The agonized screams of those innocent victims still haunted his dreams. By the time he'd returned to Paris, the old opera house had been replaced, Antoinette had been married and widowed, and the frightened young boy who'd escaped the gypsies had become an experienced assassin. But Antoinette had asked no questions and received him with open arms. He still remembered the day he'd come 'home,' unable to face his old friend's warm welcome with so much blood on his hands, the very fact that she hadn't pressed him for information compelling him to confess the guilt weighing heavy on his heart until at last he'd collapsed at her feet in a fit of sobs, weeping like a child as she'd held him as his own mother never had. He hadn't killed again until….

He blinked suddenly and shook his head, banishing the unpleasant memories back into the farthest recesses of his mind. He couldn't dwell on them for too long, or he'd be lost to the darkness again, and that was certainly NOT something he wanted Christine to witness. She had seen him fall apart the night of the fire, and he had no intentions of ever allowing her to see his weaknesses again.

He stood, noticing that Christine had lowered her head again, pinching the bridge of her nose with one hand and gripping front of his oversized jacket with the other. She looked absolutely miserable, and he silently cursed himself for allowing his own troubles to take precedence in his mind over her illness. He tentatively offered her a hand up, releasing a sigh of relief when she took it without hesitation.

"Come. I know of a little coffee shop that just opened up 'round the corner. Perhaps we might do better to continue our conversation there."

Without any prompting, she linked her arm around his and laid her head against his shoulder. His heart leapt at the unexpected contact. He'd wanted this for years, and yet now that he was presented with the opportunity, he had to force himself not to push her away.

_Why, Christine? Why? Why must you tempt me with what I can never have? Why must you torture me with your nearness when your heart is so very far away? _

He tried to tell himself that it was just because she wasn't feeling well and needed the extra support, but he couldn't help pretending for a moment that her reasoning might have been otherwise. He felt her snuggle closer to his chest as the winter wind picked up, her dark curls tickling the exposed lower portion of his right cheek, and sighed contentedly. He closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of her hair, envisioning a world where he got his happy ending—a world where his face was perfect and Persia had never happened and Christine wasn't sick…. He felt the sting of tears pricking at the back of his eyes and quickly blinked them away. He looked down at the woman on his arm, and for a moment, their eyes met. Despite the pain that was etched into her flawless features, she smiled. And for the time being, it was enough.

[1] Christina Nilsson was a real opera singer who lived during the 1800s. She was born in Sweden but later studied and performed in France. She also made appearances in London, Vienna, St. Petersburg, and New York where she performed in the Metropolitan Opera's opening performance of _Faust._ Because of their many similarities, some believe that Nilsson was the inspiration for Leroux's character Christine Daaé. (_Faust_ was actually performed in October of 1883, but for the sake of this story, I'm moving the performance to the month of March.)

[2] Yes, this is a reference to Gerard Butler. If you've read my other stories "Becoming Erik" and the sequel "Becoming Family," you know that I used the last name Gérard for Erik in them as well. "Becoming Erik" was my first POTO story, and for some reason, the last name just sort of stuck, so I'm using it in here as well. :)


	5. Madame Giry's Advice

**Chapter Four: Madame Giry's Advice**

By the time the Girys left the Opera, Erik and Christine had been back for several hours. Although Erik had never been one to drink coffee—he'd developed a taste for the teas of the Orient during his time abroad—Christine had been delighted with the little coffee shop, and for at least a little while, the caffeine had worked its magic. Inevitably, though, the headache and the tiredness had returned, and Erik had insisted that she get some rest. He glanced nervously at the clock on the mantle. She had been asleep for almost five hours now, and he was beginning to worry. Having watched her from afar for so many years, he knew her habits well enough to know that something was seriously wrong. At the opera house in Paris, Christine had always been a perfectionist, a workaholic who was never satisfied with her performance until it was completely flawless. Long after the other girls had gone to sleep, she'd be up studying music sheets; when they all went to town, she'd stay behind to practice with her Angel. Now she was lifeless, as if all the energy of her youth had somehow suddenly been drained from her body.

He frowned. She'd been so innocent back then—so pure, so blameless. Unlike the other girls who'd been at the opera for nearly as long as they'd been able to walk, she hadn't yet been exposed to the many cruelties and sinful pleasures of the world, like a freshly fallen snowflake on the sidewalk before the morning traffic starts.

He had never fully understood the true meaning of 'faith like a child' until the day he saw her in the chapel, hands clasped and eyes closed as she sang a prayer for her father's spirit, teardrops rolling down her cheeks like summer rain on the smooth glass surface of a window. _How could a loving God deny one so innocent as she the right to a family? _he'd wondered. _How can she pray to the One who took her father from her arms?_ _There are no angels in this world, child—only demons with men's faces. God does not always have the decency to give a man a face to match his sin. _And yet, when she'd cried out for an Angel, he'd been unable to resist. If God would not answer the prayer of this child, then he would have to answer it himself. And so began the tale of the Angel of Music. It was a lie, of course, but it was in all likelihood the kindest thing he'd ever done. And it had healed them—both of them—for a time.

As she'd grown older, he'd started to realize that she was different. He'd wanted to keep her safe from the world—safe in his own world, safe in his arms. And yet in trying to protect her, he'd held on so tightly that she'd somehow managed to slip right through his fingers without him even knowing, slip into the familiar embrace of a childhood friend who was everything that he was not—young, handsome, honest, brave. And then she had seen him for what he really was—a liar, a monster, a killer. He had bared his very soul to her with all its hideous scars and although she had eventually come to realize that beauty is more than skin deep, there was nothing beautiful on the inside, either. She had correctly denounced his soul as more twisted and tortured than his horrid face, and though she offered him her sympathy, she never spoke a word of love—had turned him down cold when he'd made one last pitiful attempt to say the words he knew she'd never return.

_Christine, I love you…._

And he still did. No matter how much he wanted to be angry with her. No matter how much it hurt to know that she was leaving. No matter how many lies he told himself, he knew his feelings hadn't changed.

He stared into the flames, the orange glow of the fire illuminating the exposed left side of his face. Ordinarily, he might have removed the mask and wig by now, but with Christine staying in his home, he didn't feel comfortable going without them. In fact, he hadn't even taken off his coat since he'd been home—though for an entirely different reason. It was the coat he'd given Christine to wear in Central Park, and although he was becoming uncomfortably hot, he refused to take it off. It still smelled like her, and if he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend that she was in his arms…that she had come back to him out of love instead of guilt…that they had eternity instead of a few short weeks.

The morphine was already singing in his veins, and its effects were slowly sinking in.

He glanced up again at the clock again. _They'll be home soon._ He sighed as he heard the familiar sound of a key turning inside the lock. He didn't bother to get up but kept his eyes trained on the hearth as two silhouettes tiptoed inside, the door clicking closed behind them. There was a moment of hushed whispers before one shadowy shape slipped off to the bedroom across from Christine's. The other took a seat on the sofa, sharing the silence for a few quiet moments.

Madame Giry was the first to speak. "How is she?"

"Tired." He still didn't look up. "She's been asleep for hours."

The former ballet mistress nodded thoughtfully. "And your walk this morning? How did she seem then?"

He sighed. "The same as always—beautiful, inquisitive, charming…." He frowned. "Distant."

"Distant?"

"So very close and yet, as always, just out of my grasp." He finally met her eyes. "How is it possible for two bodies that are touching to have souls that are so very far apart?"

"Her mind on many things right now, Erik. I am certain she meant no harm."

"No... She never does. And yet look at the damage she has done…." There was no anger or accusation in his voice, merely a weary resignation.

"She needs you, Erik. Perhaps now more than ever."

He clenched his jaw. "She didn't _need_ me very much over the past year, though, did she? In fact, I daresay if not for her…predicament…she should still be carrying on quite nicely without me."

Madame Giry frowned disapprovingly. "When looking back on one's life, one often finds that there are certain things that they regret doing…." She looked at him pointedly.

Erik glared but quickly dropped his gaze when he met her eyes. The ballet mistress had always possessed a strange way of making him feel guilty without ever saying a word. He sighed. "If I could go back and change things, you know I would," he whispered. He shook his head. "So many things…."

"But you cannot. And neither can she. You cannot change what _was_—only make the best of what _is_." She paused. "She loves you, Erik. Of that I have no doubt. But she is young—perhaps too young to fully understand her feelings for you."

"But not too young to die."

The bitterness was evident in his voice, and she reached across the space between sofa and the armchair to lay a hand on his shoulder. Instinctively, he tensed, and she frowned. It hurt her to think that even after so many years of knowing one another, he automatically expected a slap of reprimand rather than a touch of motherly affection. But then, given his background, she supposed she could hardly blame him. She gave his arm a gentle squeeze before withdrawing her hand.

There was an air of finality in the action, as if she'd had her last say on the matter, and Erik obligingly took the opportunity to change the subject. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"How were things at the Opera today? Were you able to finish the casting?"

While he ordinarily would have preferred to do all of the casting himself, he trusted the ballet mistress' judgment. After all, the current situation he found himself in left little room for compromise: Either the Opera or Christine would demand his full attention over the course of the next month…and the choice between the two was hardly to be considered a choice at all. Christine would come first. She would _always_ come first.

"All of the roles have been filled except for Seibel. If all goes as planned, we will begin rehearsals sometime next week."

She was all business now, and Erik was grateful for the change. Despite their long friendship, he was much more comfortable speaking with her as a business partner than as a sort of wayward son. He looked up, mildly surprised.

"I thought Meg was considering auditioning for the role."

"She was. However, as I am currently serving as the manager in your absence, someone must be given authority over the dancers, and although Meg does love performing, she has long wanted the opportunity to teach." She glanced up to see Erik's reaction. "I gave her permission to do my job for the time being."

Erik was quiet for a moment before nodding in agreement. Though the Giry girl had only known him from her mother's description and the ballet girls' ghost stories until recently, he had long observed her from afar and knew her habits almost as well as Christine's. Being the daughter of his closest friend and the foster-sister of his beloved angel, he had always ensured her protection. He knew she was a hard worker, and Madame Giry, though undoubtedly proud of her daughter, had never given the girl special treatment in the corps de ballet; she'd had to earn the right to advance just like everyone else. And if Antoinette believed she was ready to lead, then he would not question her decision.

"You have taught her well. She was advancing quickly before…" He shook his head to clear the memories of the night the Opera House had burned to the ground. "Now she has been deprived of dance for almost a year and dragged across the ocean for my sake…. If someone must fill your position, I can think of no one more deserving or capable. I owe her that much."

Madame Giry smiled. "She will be glad to hear it. She has missed dancing so much, and I think getting back to the stage will do us all good." She smoothed her dress thoughtfully. "Christine has likely missed the stage, as well. Perhaps you would consider giving her a tour before the grand opening? I'm certain she would enjoy seeing your handiwork."

"Perhaps."

Erik did not seem interested in further discussing the subject, and Madame Giry took the pause in conversation to turn the topic to another matter. "Will you be attending Mass tomorrow?"

He drew his lips into a firm line. "You know I don't believe in that."

The ballet mistress gave him a stern look. "Don't or _won't_?"

It was the same every week. Never a forceful scolding or a harsh reprimand—just a polite invitation, a quiet plea for the sake of his soul. To be honest, he thought he'd prefer the scolding. He sighed, closing his eyes. "You know I don't like to like to discuss this. I don't feel like arguing with you right now."

"Christine would appreciate it."

He got up from the chair, suddenly agitated, and began pacing in front of the hearth. "And tell me, Antoinette, does Christine also appreciate the fact that her God is cutting her life short? Why take an innocent life? Why her? Why take away the only thing that has ever meant anything to me in this world—the only happiness that I have ever known?! If such a cruel and unjust God exists, I'd prefer to believe that there is no God at all!"

He turned from her then, leaning against the mantle. In the back of his mind, he knew he already had the answer to his question.

_She is too good, too pure for this life. She does not belong in this world. She never has. You yourself once thought to protect her from the cruelties of life by imprisoning her in a world of darkness. How can you blame God for wanting to reclaim her soul to a world of light? For wanting her voice for His heavenly choir? Did you not want the same? You always said she had the voice of an angel, didn't you?_

_I didn't mean _literally_!_

_You know there is a God. The very fact that Christine exists at all—that she kissed that horrid face of yours, even if was only out of pity—should be proof enough. You just don't want to admit the truth because if there is a God, it means that you're accountable for all those sins hanging over your head…._

He let out a growl of frustration, kicking the grate in front of the fire and sending up a shower of sparks.

By now the ballet mistress had grown used to her protégé's regular temper tantrums, and while she knew his mood swings could be dangerous, she also knew enough to know that he would never physically harm her. She waited patiently for the moment to pass before speaking.

"God knows how to make even the worst of situations work out for good, Erik." Her tone was solemn. "Even those things which we do not understand."

"_Good?!_ You believe that Christine dying is _good?!_" he hissed. "Do not speak to me of _good_ when you know _nothing_ of the pain that I've endured!"

Madame Giry rose silently from her spot on the sofa. When she looked up, there were tears glistening in her eyes. "You forget with whom you speak," she whispered. "Although you are correct that I have, in many ways, been spared of the cruelties that you have suffered, do not forget that I, too, have known grief and loss…and love."

Erik silently cursed himself for his brash words. _You fool! She's been nothing but kind to you, and still you treat her with the callous insensitivity of a stranger. _But outwardly he maintained an unsympathetic demeanor.

"And I suppose your husband's death was _good_, too, was it?"

She did not answer immediately but came to stand by his side. When she spoke, she did not look at him directly. "Do you suppose that if my husband had lived, I would have ever come back to the Opera?" Her voice was quiet, barely a whisper. "Who would have taken care of Christine?"

"I would have."

She turned slowly to face him, offering a small, sad smile. "And who would have taken care of you?"

He had no answer for that, for as much as he wanted to protest that he was perfectly capable of caring for himself, he knew that it would be a lie. _She thinks it's _good_ that I'm alive! That her own husband's death was worth saving me…._ The sudden revelation was too much for him, and whatever attempt he had been making to remain unmoved by her unwavering faith in God and His good plan failed. He bowed his head ashamedly.

"Forgive me. I had no right to say such things." He closed his eyes again, drawing a shaky breath. "How did you do it?" He looked up, eyes pleading for an answer. "How did you keep living every day when…." He swallowed back the lump in his throat, his grip on the mantle intensifying. A single tear slipped out, but he allowed no more.

Madame Giry's eyes were no drier. "One day at a time." She sighed. "He went so quickly…I…I never had the chance to say goodbye." She looked up at him. "But you do. Each day you have with her—every minute you share together—is precious. Do not forget that."

Without another word, she quietly brushed past him, leaving Erik once again alone with his thoughts, the soft crackle of the fire his only companion. By the time he fell asleep in the large armchair, the first gray light of dawn was in the sky, and the flames had been reduced to a smoldering heap of ashes.


	6. A Candle in the Darkness

**Chapter Five: A Candle in the Darkness**

Christine awoke the next morning feeling refreshed, the relentless stabbing pain of her headache having dulled to a minor throb that was more inconvenient than incapacitating. Pale winter sunlight streamed through the sheer fabric of the curtains, illuminating the white walls and giving the room a soft, hazy glow. Briefly, she closed her eyes again. Down the hall she could hear the voice of Madame Giry scolding Meg for burning the breakfast and Erik for sleeping all night in the armchair. She smiled at the thought. Madame Giry was the _only_ person who would ever get away with scolding the former Phantom.

Suddenly, she sat up, realizing just how hungry she was and that she had apparently slept right through the previous night's dinner. Stepping out onto the cold hardwood floor, she threw a blanket around her shoulders and tiptoed past the window to the corner where her luggage remained as yet unpacked leaning up against the wardrobe. She was about to open the suitcase when she noticed that one of the doors on the wardrobe had been left slightly ajar. It was only a tiny crack—hardly noticeable from a distance—but it was enough to pique Christine's interest.

_I don't remember opening the wardrobe._

Curiously, she tugged at the little wooden doorknob, generating a horrible squeaking noise as the door swung open on its hinges to reveal a set of the most beautiful dresses she'd ever seen. She gasped softly as she ran her fingers over the material. Even the dresses that Raoul had given her—lavish though they might have been—could not compare with these. Each was the perfect size and perfect style, neither overly gaudy nor insultingly plain, with rich colors that would compliment her dark eyes and enhance her creamy porcelain skin tone. It was obvious that the dresses—like the furnishings of the room itself—had not been chosen at random but with the tender affection of someone who held her in high regard.

_Did he make all of these…for me…?_

She blushed. It seemed foolish and vain to believe that the dresses had been designed specifically for her when she knew good and well that Erik had not been expecting her arrival…and yet, had Meg not stated that the furniture in the room had been chosen with her mind? Like any good man of the arts, Erik was known to be a bit eccentric—well, perhaps _eccentric_ wasn't quite a strong enough word—and given the fact that he'd once designed her a wedding dress before they'd even met in person, she wouldn't put it past him to have set up a room full of dresses for her at his new estate…even if the Christine who would enjoy them existed only in his mind.

She chose a wine-red dress with golden accents. It had quarter-length sleeves, a modest yet comfortably low neckline, and a small bustle. Realizing that she would need a bit of assistance with the corset, she cracked open the door to call for Meg but squeaked in surprise when she saw Erik standing right outside, hand poised as if to knock and looking almost as shocked as she was. She clutched the dress tightly against her chest and took a step back, dropping her gaze to the floor and blushing so profusely that she felt certain her face was the color of the dress in her arms.

"E-Erik! What are you doing here?" Her blushed deepened. _Well, that was a rather stupid question! It is_ his_ house, after all._

Erik immediately turned away, forcing himself to avert his gaze. Whatever he had been expecting, he most definitely had NOT planned on walking in on Christine in nothing but her nightwear! He was thankful that he had his back to her so she couldn't see that even the exposed good side of his face had turned a rather unflattering shade of red.

"I-I was just coming to see if you were awake. Antoinette and Meg thought you might want to accompany them to Mass."

Christine frowned. "Are you not going with them?"

The obvious disappointment in her voice was almost enough to make him change his mind, and he knew that if he turned around, one look into her soft, brown eyes would most certainly weaken his resolve. But he refused to look her way, partially out of blatant obstinacy and partially because he knew that if he turned around his eyes would linger on her body longer than he knew they should.

"I have some business to attend to." He grimaced. _There you go again—lying to her because you're too afraid to admit the truth! You coward! You stupid, stupid coward._

"Oh."

It was just one syllable, but the way she said it made him feel as though he were completely and utterly unworthy of her presence. _She's _dying_, you idiot! You should cherish every moment you have left with her! Is it really too much to ask for you to accompany her to Mass—just this once?_ But he could not bring himself to voice an answer and instead decided to change the subject.

"I see you've discovered the contents of the wardrobe. Are the dresses to your liking?"

"Y-yes. Very much so." She chewed her lip nervously. "Did…did you make them?"

The silent words "for me" remained lodged in her throat, but Erik heard them as clearly as if she had spoken them aloud, thoroughly embarrassed at having been caught in his obsession.

"Yes," he answered hesitantly.

"It was very thoughtful of you." She cleared her throat. "Well, I…I suppose I should be getting dressed. Would you mind calling Meg for me?"

"Of course." He heard the door give a slight creak on its hinges and instinctively turned to catch the door before she could close it. "Wait! Christine!"

And once again he found himself facing her, struggling to keep his gaze on her eyes.

"I…I was wondering whether you would be interested in taking a tour of the new opera house—perhaps tomorrow or later this afternoon? If you're not too tired, that is…."

She smiled. "I'd love to."

xxxx

Christine knelt before the gilded figure of the Holy Virgin, head bowed in silent prayer as the candles burned low, hot wax dripping down the sides to match the tears that were sliding down her cheeks—as if the candles themselves were weeping, crying out to the saints and the angels to hear her quiet plea. The service had ended nearly an hour ago, and the church was deserted now with the exception of the priest and a few others who, like her, had come to pray or confess, their hushed whispers like the soft fluttering of angels' wings the only sound within the chapel. In truth, this was why she had wanted to come, for although the service had been nice, the church was rather large and crowded. Having grown up traveling the countryside with her violinist father and later singing and dancing at the Opera Populaire, she had grown accustomed to quaint little country churches and the tiny chapel near the ballet dormitories. The size and extravagance of a New York church, therefore, had been more than slightly overwhelming, and she was grateful now for the quiet peace that enveloped her as she prayed, lips moving fervently although no sound was coming out.

Near the front of the church in a shortened little pew, Madame Giry and Meg waited patiently, looking on with a mixture of pity and concern within their eyes, their own silent prayers for her recovery hanging heavy in the air. They were in no great hurry, and they made no attempts to rush her. Whatever plans they might have made could wait; Christine was in a world of her own right now—a world in which only God and she existed and time itself seemed to stand still.

She prayed for the spirit of her father, the man who had introduced her to the faith and to her music—for his love, for his guidance, for his help. She prayed for her Angel, the Angel she now knew to be nothing but a man—a broken man with a broken face and a broken heart—for his healing, for his happiness, for his soul. The end of the pew had been conspicuously empty during the service, and she couldn't help but wonder how long it had been since he'd set foot in a church. Most of all, she prayed for his comfort at her passing and for the strength to face death when it came. She didn't bother to pray for deliverance from her fate, for although she believed in miracles, she wasn't expecting one.

xxxx

Erik had been pacing for the better part of the past three hours. He'd spent the majority of the morning arguing with himself over whether or not he should have accepted Christine's invitation to Mass—one moment declaring that the Opera Ghost bowed down to no one, the other rebuking himself for his cowardice and for wasting precious time alone in his apartment when he should have been by her side. He was grateful, however, that no one had been home to hear his wild ranting and raving, for they certainly would have thought him quite mad.

After eventually coming to the conclusion that his response to the invitation no longer mattered—he'd opted not to go, and it was too late to change things now—he decided that it would do no good to continue his internal struggle and that his time would be better spent if he were productive. Perhaps there was something he could do to make it up to her? He could promise to go with her next time, of course, but he knew it would be a lie, and he didn't want to do that to her again. At long last, he pulled out the sheet of music that he'd begun to work on the night of her return and, sitting down at the piano, lifted the lid to test out a few notes, frowning at the layer of dust on the keys.

It felt strange, somehow, to be working on his music again. For the past year, he had lived in virtual silence, but it felt as though it had been eons. As his fingers slipped over the keys, it all came flooding back; though his heart had forgotten how to sing, his mind still knew the notes. He drank it in slowly, immersing himself in the music like a parched desert land rejoicing in the rain; as water brought life to the desert, so music brought life to his soul. He paused. That wasn't quite true. Music was merely a _manifestation_ of his soul; _Christine _was the one who brought it to life. She was everything that he was not—beauty and goodness and forgiveness and light, a single candle burning brightly in the darkness of despair. He frowned again. Soon she would be leaving again—though this time not of her own accord. If the music had left him during her absence before, would her death mean the end of music for good?

Before, there had still been hope—hope that somewhere across the sea, she was thinking of him; hope that one day she'd return. And somehow that possibility—slim though it was—had been enough to keep him going. The music had died, but at least he had managed to survive. This time it would be different. This time there was no chance that she'd come back…and he wasn't sure that his fractured heart could take it. For not the first time since Christine's arrival, he found himself wishing that she had never come; for if she had remained in Paris, he might never have known and in his ignorance, his hope would have lived on as long as she remained alive within his heart. But now he knew the truth, and the moment she was gone from this world, he knew his will to live would falter. Bowing his head over the piano keys, he found himself suddenly pleading with a God he wasn't even sure existed.

_God, let her live. Just let her live, and I will do whatever You ask of me. Just let her live, and I will believe. Just let her live…please…I can't live without her._

xxxx

By the time Christine opened her eyes, the candles were barely more than stubs, their blackened wicks sinking slowly into a growing puddle of wax. She watched with grim anticipation as the last of the flames sputtered, sparked…and went out.


	7. The Metropolitan Opera

**Chapter Six: The Metropolitan Opera**

Christine stood in the center of the stage, staring out at the seemingly endless rows of red velvet upholstery that curved around the stage like ripples in a pond radiating out from a central point of impact. The seats were empty now, but in a few weeks' time they would be bustling with life. She closed her eyes, imagining the roar of the crowd, the thunderous applause of the audience as the embroidered golden curtain fell…and for a moment, she was back in Paris on the night of her debut in _Hannibal_, a chorus girl who no one knew transformed into a diva overnight. She could see Raoul in the audience, his boyish smile a comfort to her frazzled nerves. Somewhere far beneath the stage, beneath the orchestra pit in the cellars of the Opera House, trapped within his own personal sort of hell, a man listened for the voice of an angel…. She opened her eyes.

"It's magnificent," she breathed. Her voice seemed to echo off the walls, amplified by the silent stillness of the theater. She turned to face Erik. "It seems even larger than Opera House in Paris."

"It is. The Garnier only holds about two thousand people. This one has over thirty-five hundred seats."

She smiled. "And I'll bet that on opening night there won't be a single one empty." Her smile faltered. "I'd like to be here to see it."

Erik took her gently by the shoulders. "You will, Christine. You will." He wasn't sure whether the false confidence in his voice was meant to reassure her or himself. "You will live to see _Faust_, _Tristan und Isolde, Roméo et Juliette, Carmen_…. Perhaps you will even take the stage again and astound the audiences here the way you did in France."

Christine frowned. "Erik…"

He lifted a gloved hand to her chin and gently tilted her face up to see the conviction in his eyes. But even he knew it was more of a plea than a prediction. "You will die an old woman with a loving husband and children and countless years of happiness to your name. You will outlive me and Madame Giry and even little Meg. You will, Christine. You will, and you must."

The smile returned, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. The look on her face reminded him of the way a mother looks at a small child when she is presented with a paper full of scribbles that is supposedly a great work of literature. He half expected her to pat him on the head and say, "It's a lovely little story, Erik"—and it was…for a fairytale.

Years ago, she had enjoyed such fables—true love and magic and happy endings—stories where the beauty fell in love with the beast, where frogs were really princes, and where a single kiss could return the warmth of life to a cold heart that had beat its last. These were stories her father had told her—stories _he_ had told her—and somehow her love for the stories had been contagious, had given him hope that he might find his own happy ending despite the cruelties of fate. But the little girl that he'd once known had grown into a woman, her dreams of love and life shattered by the harsh light of reality—for when the kiss had ended, the beast had still remained. In this world without magic, Erik had come to realize that true love was rare and happy endings were even rarer. Christine had made him want to believe otherwise, and for a moment, he had—but now it seemed that she had outgrown such fairytales, the carefree dimples of a child replaced by lines of worry that looked out of place on a face so young. Christine had always been the one to give _him_ hope, and seeing her now in such despair quite honestly frightened him.

Seeing his discomfort, she made an attempt to change the subject. She made a sweeping gesture with her arm to the expanse that lay before them. "So, you designed all of this?"

He sighed, relieved to shift his thoughts to something a bit less morbid, the look of absolute awe in her eyes making his heart suddenly swell with pride. "For the most part, yes, though I did work in conjunction with another architect—a Mr. J. Cleveland Cady. Unfortunately, the place isn't quite as grand as I'd imagined. In the original design, I had planned to include several sculptures—inside as well as on the roof, much like the Paris Opera House—but Mr. Cady thought my ideas too extravagant—too _French_, if you will, for the taste of the American public." He sighed. "I suppose he was right. Although Americans seem to be more accepting of my…uniqueness…" he frowned, "their appreciation for the arts is rather lacking." [1]

"I knew you were an accomplished musician and composer, but I wasn't aware that you were skilled in architecture as well."

She really shouldn't have been surprised, she supposed. Erik seemed to be good at everything he attempted…. Well, everything except social interactions. Then again, most geniuses were a bit socially awkward, it seemed…but Erik was an exception even among even his intellectual peers.

"I suppose it runs in the family."

Christine looked at him questioningly but refrained from voicing her curiosity aloud. She had learned the hard way that where Erik was concerned, some questions were better left unasked. He would answer them in his own sweet time when he was ready.

Erik almost laughed. The effort she was putting into restraining her naturally inquisitive mind was obvious…but she was still looking at him expectantly, as if she hoped that by some sort of reverse psychology if she didn't ask he would be compelled to give an answer. Despite the fact that her curiosity had once caused a great rift between them, he supposed he really couldn't blame her when he himself had been much the same as a child—always taking things apart to learn how they worked and asking enough questions to drive his poor mother insane. He knew what it was like to be frustrated by unanswered questions, and he found the fact that she was making a genuine effort to suppress her curiosity for his sake endearing.

"My father was a mason," he explained.

"You learned from him, then?"

He sighed. _More questions._ "No. No, I never met my father. He died before I was born." _Which was a blessing for his sake_, he thought bitterly. He considered leaving it at that, but for some reason that he couldn't fully explain, he continued. "I learned from a man named Giovanni. He was a good man…and a good friend."

There was a deep sadness in his voice. It reminded Christine of the way he had spoken her name that night of the fire, silently begging her not to leave.

She frowned. "What happened?"

A shadow passed over his features. "We had a bit of a falling-out after the…accident…."

"Accident?"

The word made her a bit uneasy. There had been far too many "accidents" at the Opera House to count. She tried not to jump to any conclusions, but….

"He had a daughter—Luciana—who was a bit too nosy for her own good." He hadn't missed the look of discomfort on her face, though she'd attempted to cover it up. "She kept insisting that I remove the mask, knowing I didn't want to…." His eyes were distant, looking out across the stage as though he were staring into a portal of another time and place. "Giovanni knew that she was driving me insane, so to put an end to all the madness, he thought it would be best if I simply gave in to her demands. I suppose he hoped that once she'd seen, it would shut her up for good…." He shuddered inwardly at the implication of the words. He sighed again. "So, I did as he asked. I didn't want to, but for him, I was willing to do it. I would have done anything he asked, and he knew it…but I wish he hadn't asked me to do _that._"

He glanced up at Christine, who was listening with rapt attention. Somehow during the midst of his speech, she had taken his hand without him noticing. His gaze flickered briefly to their loosely intertwined fingers when she gave his hand a gentle squeeze and though his heart gave a little jump, he didn't pull away. He supposed he must have looked rather shaken, but the warm, encouraging look in her eyes persuaded him to continue.

"Needless to say, it frightened her." He closed his eyes in shame, drawing his lips into a thin line. "We were up on the roof when it happened. She backed away, and the balustrade…i-it wasn't safe…and…."

He couldn't bring himself to say any more. Images of the girl's bruised and mangled body, arms and legs splayed in all sorts of unnatural angles flashed before his eyes, a halo of raven-colored curls and ruby-colored blood surrounding her fractured skull, dead eyes wide with terror and open mouth forever frozen in a silent scream.

_It's your fault, you know._

_No…. It was an accident._

_You knew she would die from the sight of your devil's face!_

_No!_

_You bring misfortune to all who gaze upon your hideous visage! You poisoned Christine with your kiss, and see what has befallen her! _

_NO!_

He opened his eyes, suddenly aware of his surroundings. His breaths were coming in short, uneven gasps; his heart was slamming against his chest so hard he thought it might burst. Beneath the mask, he felt a trickle of cold sweat drip down his brow. Only then did he realize that Christine was still staring at him with a mixture of concern and…pain? Instantly, he released the vice grip hold he had on her hand and turned away. He hadn't intended for her to see him so distraught…and he certainly hadn't intended to hurt her. There would probably be a ring of bruises around her knuckles in the morning.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

The apology caught him off guard, and he suddenly found himself at a loss for words. _Shouldn't I be the one apologizing?_ He shrugged it off.

"There's nothing to be done about it now." He gently took her hand, rubbing the area just above her knuckles thoughtfully before daring to interlace their fingers yet again and resuming a confident air. "Come, there is still much I have to show you."

xxxx

The excursion to the opera house, though enjoyable, had been a bit overwhelming. After hours of being on her feet, Christine returned to the apartment entirely drained of energy and fairly collapsed onto the couch. More than once on the way home she had stumbled, and Erik had ended up with his arm wrapped around her shoulders to keep her from falling…not that he minded. He did, however, feel terribly guilty for tiring her out. He had simply become so wrapped up in explaining the design and talking about the upcoming production that he had lost track of the time—and Christine, being the polite girl that she was, had made no attempts to remind him.

It was difficult not to admire her as she slept, firelight dancing on her skin and turning her curls to liquid copper, as if she herself was radiant with heavenly light. The last time he had seen her like this was during _Don Juan Triumphant_. The fire on the stage hadn't been real, of course—at least, not at first—but there had been fire in her heart and fire in her eyes like he'd never seen before, a passion that burned deep within her soul. He had felt it in the way that she responded to his touch, the way she'd leaned into his arms.

_It was an act_, he reminded himself._ She was only playing the part. _Of course_ she responded to you—it was written into the choreography! It was just an act and nothing more._

But there was another part of him that wasn't quite so sure.

_Was it?_

He honestly didn't know, for although he would have liked to think that at least _some_ of Christine's behavior had been natural rather than staged, he had no reference point with which to compare it. He had never touched a woman before—no woman had ever let him. How was he to know what love felt like? And yet, there had been subtle cues that seemed to give her away—the quickening of her pulse, the way her heart had fluttered when he'd held her close, the way her breaths came a bit too rapidly despite all of her training—things that she could not control, things that her body knew that she had not yet admitted to her heart. But had it been out of fear or out of love that she had reacted? Perhaps both?

His own heart leapt at the possibility, and for a fleeting moment, he thought he might die of sheer joy. But the moment was short-lived, as the reality of the situation sank in.

_You ignorant fool! If she ever loved you at all, it was as her Angel—not as a man! She fell in love with a lie and so did you! You knew all along who would play the roles of Aminta and Don Juan. You set it up so that she would be _forced_ to show you some sort of affection regardless of her feelings and paraded her around that stage as if she were a common harlot!_

Erik was suddenly disgusted with himself, feeling as if he had somehow violated Christine in an unspeakable way. True, he had not robbed her of her virtue—nor would he ever, not even if she had agreed to be his bride if she had not consented to it—but it still felt…wrong.

He noticed a single curl that had fallen out of place, and moved to replace it. It was the first time that he had really touched her hair without the gloves on, and he found himself unconsciously rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger, each strand of hair a thread of finely spun silk. His fingers grazed her cheek as he tucked the hair behind her ear.

_Hands that have spilled so much blood have no right to touch an angel's face._

But he couldn't seem to tear his gaze away from her, and he started tracing her jawline, her chin, the soft curve of her neck….

He stopped.

_You're doing it again._

_Doing what?_

_Taking advantage of her. Invading her boundaries of personal space._

_I haven't done anything wrong._

_Yet._

Sighing, he stood and carefully slipped his arms beneath her sleeping form. He had carried her like this only once before, yet he immediately noticed the difference in her weight, and it startled him to realize just how fragile she had become in such a short amount of time. Lying her down on the bed within her room, he unfolded a blanket at the foot of the bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. Before he left the room, he couldn't resist planting a soft kiss on her forehead, the words he dared not speak aloud hanging heavy in the air. He hesitated for just a moment, then turned and walked out, locking the door from the inside before closing it gently behind him.

[1] J. Cleveland Cady was the real architect of the original Metropolitan Opera that opened in 1883. It was eventually torn down in 1967.


	8. I See the Light

**Chapter Seven: I See the Light**

Christine slept for hours. She didn't wake when Madame Giry knocked and said that dinner was ready. She didn't stir when the rays of morning sunlight came streaming through the window. Even Erik's rather loud rendition of "Dido's Lament" on the piano did not wake her, nor did the anxious staccato of his footsteps on the hardwood floor as he paced, restlessly debating whether to pick the lock and risk intruding on her privacy or to simply wait it out. By the time her eyelids finally fluttered open, the winter sun had set and the first of the evening stars had risen in the sky. She knew she should get up, but the door seemed so far away and the air seemed so cold outside the blanket. Perhaps a few more minutes of sleep wouldn't hurt….

"Christine." Someone gently shook her shoulder. "Christine, wake up."

_I know that voice…. _

This time the shaking was more urgent. "Christine, wake up!"

_Angel? No…Erik._

Her eyes snapped open and she woke with a startled gasp, jumping a little at the surprise of finding someone staring down at her in her sleep. She breathed a sigh of relief when she realized who it was. Thankfully, she was still wearing her clothes from the day before. She gave him a small smile.

"You really should learn how to knock, you know" she teased.

The corners of his lips lifted ever so slightly—so slightly that when Christine blinked, she wasn't even sure if a smile had been there. "My apologies. Old habit. Ghosts don't usually need to knock." He suddenly became serious again. "I probably shouldn't have come to wake you, but I was beginning to worry." He turned away. "After so long of hearing only silence from your room, I thought that…well, I thought you might not wake up at all."

She sat up. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to worry you."

He gave a short laugh. "I'm _always_ worried about you, Christine."

She blushed. "How long have I been asleep?"

Erik still had not turned around. "A little over a day."

"A day!" she exclaimed. "My goodness, no wonder you were worried!" She frowned. "I didn't realize I'd slept that long…." She was quiet for a moment. "Where are Meg and Madame Giry?"

"Still at work." He turned to face her. "They started rehearsals today, so they'll probably be coming in late most days. I doubt they'll be back for at least another hour."

In truth, he felt incredibly guilty for having left the Girys with the brunt of the workload with their first production fast approaching. But when he'd expressed his worry to Antoinette, she had been quick to remind him that someone needed to stay with Christine, and the guilt of abandoning Christine in a time of need far outweighed the guilt of leaving his oldest friend in charge of things at the new Opera House.

"Meg told me you put her in charge of the dancers for _Faust_," she smiled. "She was so excited. I know you won't be disappointed with her." She sighed and shook her head. "I've missed so much this past year. I thought that by coming here I could somehow make up for it…." She shrugged. "But here I am sleeping life away while I should be spending time with the ones that I love…."

_Love? _Erik decided not to read too much into her final statement. Surely she was referring to the familial sort of love she felt for the Girys. He wouldn't get his hopes up on the _other _possibility just yet. Suddenly, he seemed to remember something important.

"How would you feel about doing something right now? Do you feel like going out?

Christine was taken aback. "I…I suppose. But now? It's after dark."

Erik smiled. "Then it's the perfect time."

"Perfect time for what?"

"It's a surprise."

Christine's brows knit in concern. "Won't Madame Giry worry if we're gone when she gets back?"

"I'll leave her a note explaining things."

Christine chewed her lip nervously. Going out with the former Phantom during the daylight had seemed harmless enough. It had been strange, at first, to see him walking the streets like any other man—almost surreal—but once she had overcome the initial shock, she had come to see what so many had failed to recognize: that beneath the mask he was, in fact, human just like everyone else. But while the light had revealed his humanity, the darkness was still his favored element. In the darkness, one could hide; in the darkness, monsters lurked. He had come to her in the cover of night for years in the guise of an Angel, and in the dark of the night, he had stolen her away to his home beneath the Opera House in Paris. He had lived in darkness for so many years that it was little wonder that some of it had seeped into his soul. Christine hesitated. She had seen both sides of him now—the man as well as the monster. Since her arrival in New York, the latter had yet to reemerge…but she had to wonder how long it would last.

Erik sighed. He should have known that this was coming.

_Idiot! What were you thinking?! Oh, yes, an invitation to wander the dark streets of a foreign city alone with a man who previously kidnapped her and murdered her co-workers sounds like a lovely idea, doesn't it?_

He mentally kicked himself for entertaining the possibility that she'd accept. Still, he had to know. He would probably regret asking, but….

"Christine, do you trust me?"

Christine thought for a moment before responding. "I always trusted my Angel…. In fact, I think the reason that I stopped trusting my Angel—the reason I was disappointed in you—was because I realized that my Angel was a man."

She paused to look at Erik who had closed his eyes in shame. Quietly, she stood and made her way toward him, slipping her hand into his. When he opened his eyes, she noticed a tiny spark of hope amid a green sea of uncertainty.

"Angels are supposed to be perfect," she explained, "but men are not." She smiled softly. "When one's moral standards are compared to an angel's, I suppose anyone would be found lacking. Mistakes are made for learning, and if you have truly learned your lesson from before, then I will trust you until you give me reason not to."

Erik was stunned into silence. Overwhelmed by her unwavering faith in him despite all that had transpired, he simply nodded. At last, he cleared his throat.

"Well, then…I suppose you should be getting ready." He reluctantly released her hand and stepped just outside the door. "Dress warmly. It's cold out tonight."

xxxx

Despite the lateness of the hour, Erik managed to hail a cab. Ordinarily, he would have preferred to walk, but given Christine's current health and the rapidly dropping temperature, he thought a carriage ride would better suit his company. Unfortunately, the backseat of this particular carriage was rather small, and in order for them to squeeze in, they'd ended up sitting a bit closer than what was probably considered proper—but then, Christine had given up on being proper a long time ago. The fact that it was long after dark didn't seem to help matters. Upon first seeing them, the carriage driver had raised an eyebrow but said nothing, probably wondering what business a man of Erik's age had taking a woman out so late at night. He'd just given Erik a knowing smile and let them in. Christine chose to ignore the man's obvious insinuation, but Erik burned with anger, muttering curses under his breath at the man who dared to make such assumptions about Christine. He would have done more, but a gentle touch on his arm stayed his hand. And once again, he was amazed by the effect she had on him. Even at his worst, a single word or a simple touch from her was all it took to change his mind, to break down all the barriers around his heart and stir compassion in his soul.

Christine shivered and instinctively scooted closer, leaning up against his shoulder for the added warmth. Erik's eyes widened at the contact. Beneath the fabric of her dress, he could feel the heat of her skin as the upper part of her leg brushed up against his. Ashamed at the thoughts that suddenly entered his mind, he quickly turned his attention elsewhere, staring out the little carriage window to avoid looking at Christine, who was innocently oblivious to Erik's discomfort.

Thankfully, the ride was relatively short, and they soon arrived at their destination, which to Christine's surprise, was a rather run-down looking part of town. Peeking cautiously out the window on her side, she suddenly felt much safer inside the carriage. She glanced hesitantly back at Erik, but he was already stepping out of the carriage. After paying the driver his appointed fee and instructing him to return within an hour, he turned and offered Christine his hand.

_Well, I said I would trust you._

She took a deep breath, and despite her misgivings, accepted the outstretched hand, stepping gracefully out of the carriage and into the dark, windswept streets of Manhattan.

"Where are we?" she asked.

As he lead her down one particularly dark alleyway, she was reminded of the vaults beneath the Opera Populaire, and although she clung to him for safety's sake, the fact that history appeared to be repeating itself made her wonder whether his intentions were truly honorable.

_Perhaps he hasn't changed after all_, she sighed.

But it was too late to go back now. Now she was in a strange place in a strange land where she barely spoke the language, and he was the only familiar face around. Now she was at his mercy. Now she _had_ to trust him because she had no other choice.

Erik felt his heart sink. The way she held his hand a little too tightly, the way her eyes kept darting around, he knew she was afraid—though whether she feared the place or his presence he was unsure. He purposely avoided her gaze as he answered.

"The locals call it Chinatown."

"Chinatown?" she asked, her curiosity temporarily overruling her fear. "What's that?"

In the dim light of the distant streetlamps, she could barely make out a rusty, crooked old sign on one of the seemingly abandoned buildings in an elegant yet indecipherable foreign script. One of the shop windows had been smashed. A spray of glass shards littering the cobblestone street below glittered like diamonds in the starlight. A few small pieces crunched beneath her shoes as she stepped to the side.

Erik sighed. "Unfortunately, as accepting as New Yorkers are to oddities such as the mask, they are not particularly fond of immigrants of non-European descent. Recently, there has been a flood of Chinese immigrants, but they aren't allowed to stay in the better part of the city. Pushed to the fringes of society, they established a place of their own. It isn't much, but it's a place where they can feel like they belong. Outsiders are usually frowned upon, but in the time I've been here, I've come to know quite a few of them." He frowned. "It's a shame, really. Most are good, upstanding people—hard workers, too. I highly doubt that any of these rich, upscale New Yorkers would dare to perform some of the difficult jobs I've seen them do."

"Oh!" Christine gasped with delight as they reached the end of the dark corridor, the warm, inviting glow of red paper lanterns and the brightly colored costumes of dragon dancers taking her by surprise. "Oh, it's lovely!"

Erik smiled at the childish excitement in her voice, and for a moment, he saw the youthful spark reignited in her eyes.

"Tonight is a special night for them," he explained, "because it is the Chinese New Year. At midnight, they'll release hundreds of floating lanterns into the sky to greet the New Year."

"Floating lanterns?" She seemed intrigued by the idea. "How does that work?"

"There's a piece in the center that's lit on fire. The hot air inside causes the lantern to rise."

Christine looked skeptical.

"I'll show you."

He hailed a passing stranger who was selling lanterns. Although he did not know the man personally, word had travelled quickly through the Chinese community about "The Masked One" who understood their language and afforded them respect that few Americans or Europeans had. They had been wary at first, some superstitiously believing him to be some sort of evil spirit, but over time they had come to see him as a friend, and nearly everyone in Chinatown recognized him.

Upon seeing the white half-mask, the old Chinese man smiled, the fringe of his red and gold silk kimono brushing the ground as he gave a polite bow. Erik returned the gesture and then, to Christine's astonishment, said something in a language which she assumed was Chinese, pointing to the lanterns in his cart. The man seemed mildly surprised by his words, his almond-shaped eyes widening slightly.

Erik's eyes darted briefly to where Christine still stood hidden among the shadows, the old man following his gaze. He hesitated, then said something else that made the old man frown.

They exchanged a few more words before Erik finally gestured for Christine to come forward. She did so hesitantly, stepping out into the red light of the lanterns with the caution of a frightened doe, but the old man's smile put her fears to rest. He took her hand between both of his and murmured what Christine thought must be some kind of greeting. She glanced at Erik for an explanation.

"He says he wishes the New Year will bring you joy and happiness and…" He looked away, swallowing back the lump in his throat. "…And long life."

Christine turned back to the man, who was still holding her hand, and smiled, nodding her appreciation. The man returned her smile, giving her hand a gentle pat before turning back to his cart and pulling out the two most beautifully decorated sky lanterns from his collection, holding them out to Erik who had a handful of coins ready to pay. But the man shook his head, gently closing Erik's fingers around the coins. Without another word, he handed him the lanterns, and turned back to his cart, rolling away to sell whatever he could before the New Year arrived.

They stood quietly for a moment, both lost in their own thoughts as they watched the man wheel away. Christine was the first to speak, her curiosity once again piqued by the ever-puzzling enigma that was Erik.

"Where did you learn to speak Chinese?"

"In China."

Christine's eyes widened. "You've visited China?"

"Mmmh. Lived there for a short period, actually."

"Oh. I always thought that…" She looked down sheepishly. "Well, I suppose it's rather silly, but I'd always assumed that you'd spent most of your life beneath the Opera House."

"I've lived in many places—Italy, Russia…Persia." He glanced at her briefly to gauge her reaction and was relieved to see only innocent curiosity in her eyes. He sighed. "Never stayed in one place for too long, though. I've always been a bit of a wanderer."

"What did you do there? How did you make a living if you were travelling all of the time? Surely you didn't go unnoticed through such a large stretch of territory?"

Erik considered his next words carefully. He didn't want to lie, but he wasn't quite ready for her to know the complete truth.

"I took odd jobs here and there. You already know about the architecture, but after I left Giovanni, I had to rely on other means, not all of which were honorable."

Thankfully, Christine didn't press him for details. He breathed a sigh of relief before continuing, hoping to draw her attention away from his less-than-honorable deeds.

"For a time I travelled with a circus where I performed magic tricks and sang."

Christine's eyes brightened. "You sang? For the public?"

"Yes," Erik smiled bitterly, "but not the way you're imagining it, I'm afraid."

She shook her head. "I don't understand."

He tightened his jaw. "As a child I was part of a gypsy circus act—a freak show, if you will—'The Devil's Child' or 'The Singing Corpse' as they called me once they realized my musical abilities." He closed his eyes. "I did sing for them, but I sang like a bird in a cage stripped of all its dignity, plucked bare for them to see the ugly creature underneath." He opened his eyes again but did not look at Christine. "By the time that I was on my own, I knew the act fairly well, so when I fell on hard times, I fell back on old habits."

Christine shook her head again. "Why?" Her voice was barely a shocked whisper. "Why would you do that to yourself?"

His eyes flickered down. "You do what you must to survive."

There was a deep sadness in his voice, a melancholy undertone so heavy it seemed an impossible burden for one man to bear alone. But Erik had never been one to share his feelings, and she doubted he'd start now. Already she had pried into his past much farther than she'd ever expected he would go, and to question him now after he had gone silent on the subject seemed a violation of his privacy. Useless words of comfort formed on her tongue and died before they ever left her lips. Pity was of little use to him, she had learned, and apologies for the atrocities he'd suffered hardly seemed an adequate compensation for humanity's misdeeds. And so, not knowing what else to do, she simply linked her arm in his and laid her head against his shoulder. She felt him tense before slowly, hesitantly, responding, tilting his head ever so slightly until his unmasked cheek rested against her curls, and though no words passed between them, they both understood.

They stood quietly for several minutes, watching the dragon dancers wind their way through the streets and listening to the sounds of laughter and goodwill amidst the crashing of the symbols and the pounding of the drums, the heartbeat of China heard halfway across the world. However, it was not the music or the cheering that drew Erik's attention but the soft whisper of a sigh from the woman on his arm as the clock struck twelve and the first of the lanterns were released into the sky, dancing on the breeze like fairies in the night.

"It's so…magical," she whispered. "I've never seen anything like it."

There were children dancing in the streets, chasing after the lanterns that dipped too low and sending them back to the heavens, running and laughing as if they didn't have a care in the world. In fact, one little girl was so intent on chasing one particular lantern that she ran right into Christine! The girl looked up guiltily, backing away from the two strangers with a mixture of fear and shame in her eyes. But Christine merely reached up and caught the lantern, and smiling, returned it to the child, whose own shy grin revealed a row of tiny pearls and a small gap where one of her top teeth should have been.

Erik caught himself smiling at the display, and he found his mind wondering what sort of mother Christine would be. What would her children look like? Would they have her soft brown curls? Would they have her doe-like eyes? Surely they would have her face. He grimaced at the thought of any child inheriting his curse, then shook his head at the preposterous and presumptuous idea that Christine would ever bear _his _children. But then he remembered that, in all likelihood, she wouldn't be living long enough to bear _anyone's_ children, and the dream-children faded until they were nothing but smoke on the breeze, the ghosts of what might have been, the little souls of the unborn who were not meant to be.

It would have been enough to move him to tears had he not looked up at that very moment to see Christine, laughing and dancing like one of the children, spinning around beneath a sky full of lights, arms embracing the heavens, eyes closed in ecstasy.

She ran back over to him, still laughing. "Oh, Erik, it's wonderful!" She put a hand on his arm. "Thank you for bringing me here tonight."

"It's not over yet."

He pulled out the lanterns that the old man had given them, striking a match against the brick wall of the alleyway to light a fire beneath first one, which he handed to Christine, then the other.

"Some believe that these lanterns will carry a wish or a prayer up to heaven for you," he explained. "It is why they release so many on the New Year in hopes that the future will be brighter than the past."

As the paper slid from their fingertips, they watched their lanterns fly away into the night, circling one another in an upward spiral dance until they could no longer be seen, lost among the crowd of others' hopes and dreams that disappeared into the sky.

"What did you wish for?" he asked.

Christine gave a playful smirk. "I can't _tell_ you, otherwise it won't come true."

She went back to leaning on his shoulder, and somehow he found the courage to put his arm around her waist, relieved and somewhat surprised when she snuggled closer instead of pulling away. How on earth he had ever been bold enough to hold her so close before, he'd never know. Perhaps it was because he had been a different person then. When she had first come to the lair, he had been the powerful Angel of Music, the mysterious Phantom of the Opera; when they had been on stage together, he had been the suavely seductive Don Juan. But now he was just Erik. Now he was just a man. And without any of the former façades to hide behind, he felt almost as exposed as if he had been wearing no mask at all.

Christine suddenly looked up. "What did _you_ wish for?"

A sea of lights swam in her eyes, the reflections of the lanterns each a tiny pinprick of gold floating in her chocolate-colored gaze, as if some of the light within her soul was overflowing, spilling out to fill the void within his own. He wanted to capture that light. To bask in it forever and never let it go.

Their faces had gotten closer, so close that their noses were nearly brushing. So close that he could smell her perfume—a mixture of roses and lavender with the faintest hint of lilac. So close that he could feel her breath against his cheek. It was warm, but somehow it still sent a shiver down his spine. Her lips were delightfully inviting, parted slightly in a silent question.

"The same thing that I have wished for every day for the past year. The same thing I have _always_ wished for."

She opened her mouth to say something, but he raised a gloved finger to her lips. There was an aching sorrow in his eyes.

"I don't want you to say it if you don't mean it, and I don't want you to apologize for it. There is nothing you have done that needs forgiving."

Christine shook her head sadly. "If I say that I love you, you will dismiss it as a lie because you cannot believe it, and if I say that I do not love you, then you will deny it because you do not wantit to be true. What do you want me to say?"

He traced the circle of her lips with his thumb. "Don't say anything. Just…"

Before he could stop himself, he had lowered his mouth to hers, pressing a soft kiss against her perfect pink lips. Christine's eyes widened in surprise, but she was too shocked to respond. Despite the apparent innocence of his inexperience, she felt the fire within his kiss, the warm tingling in her lips that lingered even after he had pulled back and seemed to thaw her frigid body from the inside out. But the kiss ended all too soon, and the moment they broke apart, he turned away.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have…."

"Erik?"

But he had resumed the cold shield of indifference. He glanced briefly down the alleyway.

"The cab will be returning soon. We should go."

This time, he did not offer her his arm, and though he did not pull away when she reached for it, she felt him stiffen. The returning carriage ride was conspicuously silent.

xxxx

NOTE: This chapter was inspired by the "I See the Light" scene from Disney's _Tangled_.


	9. Girls' Day Out

**Chapter Eight: Girls' Day Out**

Christine slid beneath the covers with a sigh. Erik hadn't spoken a single word to her on the way home. He hadn't even looked at her. In fact, he'd sat as far away from her as the little carriage had allowed, staring out the window to avoid meeting her gaze. When they'd arrived back at the apartment, he'd been cordial enough to open the door for her, but he hadn't wished her a goodnight or thanked her for the evening. Instead, he'd walked directly over to the piano, sitting down at the bench and launching into a rather dark rendition of something that sounded like a combination of Mariya's lullaby and Romeo and Juliette's dying lament. He had not asked her to leave, but the heart wrenching sounds he caressed from the keys were enough to let her and everyone else know that he wished not to be disturbed.

_I should have told him. _

_He wouldn't have believed you._

_But I could have tried!_

_It's probably better this way. If he knew you returned the feelings, it would only hurt him more to let you go. Remember, you need to keep your distance—be friendly but not _too_ friendly. There is no future for the two of you as a couple. Don't let him get his hopes up. It's better to hurt him a little now than to have him fall apart later when he realizes he can't keep you forever._

She could still hear the strains of the music drifting in through the walls. It had shifted tones now—a bit less hopeless than before but with a definite disheartened resignation that made her heart clench in a sudden wave of overwhelming guilt. His fingers were barely a whisper over the keys, producing soft notes that sounded like rain on the rooftop, and she knew instinctively that if she dared to peek around the corner, there would likely be tears slipping down his cheeks. His music always gave him away.

_You never should have come here_, she silently berated herself. _If you hadn't come, he could have learned to live happily without you. Now you've rekindled all those feelings he had for you before, and he's going to have to give you up again._

She wanted desperately to go to him, to take him in her arms and tell him of her love and promise everything would be okay. But she knew that it wouldn't. Such promises were not hers to make. And so, she resigned to stay in bed, closing her eyes and submitting to a restless sleep filled with dreams of angels weeping.

xxxx

When Christine awoke the next morning, she was surprised to hear a knock on her door that sounded much too light to be Erik's.

"Come in."

She wasn't properly dressed yet, but Erik had already walked in on her more than once, and the Girys were practically family. She pulled the covers up to her chest just in case, but the moment she saw her best friend's smiling face poke around the corner, she let them drop.

"Meg! What are you still doing here? Aren't you supposed be at rehearsals by now?"

She shook her head. "Not today. Mother's filling in for me."

Christine frowned. "But I thought…"

"He wanted to see how things were progressing at the Opera. The show starts in three weeks, you know," Meg explained. She clapped her hands in delight. "Oh, Christine, I'm so excited! I've never led the entire corps de ballet before!"

Christine smiled. Despite her disappointment at Erik's absence, Meg's obvious enthusiasm for her new job as honorary ballet mistress was contagious.

"Your mother must be so proud of you. I know I am."

Meg sighed dreamily. "It's what I've wished for my entire life!" She frowned, then, feeling guilty upon realizing that Christine's imminent demise was ultimately the reason for her latest promotion. She bit her lip, smiling sadly at her foster-sister. "I suppose I have you to thank for that," she added softly.

Christine shook her head. "You would have gotten the position eventually anyway. You have far too much talent for it to go unnoticed."

But Meg had never been one to remain in low spirits for long, and having noticed the rather depressing turn the conversation had taken, she was quick to change the subject.

"So…" she smiled conspiratorially, "tell me about last night." She skipped over to the bed, blonde curls bouncing with excitement. "I want to know _all_ the details."

She gave a little pirouette before perching herself on the foot of the bed with all the grace and poise of an accomplished ballerina, and Christine couldn't help but laugh at her friend's antics. Meg never seemed to _walk_ anywhere. She had been born to dance.

"There isn't much to tell, really."

"Where did he take you?"

Christine frowned. "I thought he left a note."

"He did, but it didn't say where you were going—only that the two of you had gone out and not to worry." Meg grinned. "I suspect he left out a specific location so that Mother wouldn't be able to follow him." She rolled her eyes. "You know how overprotective she can be."

"We went to Chinatown."

Meg's eyes widened. "Chinatown? No wonder he didn't say where you were going. Mother never would have allowed it."

"The people there were all very nice," Christine countered. "We didn't have any trouble."

Meg shook her head. "It's not the Chinese who are the trouble-makers. It's the Americans and the European immigrants who _dislike_ the Chinese that are the problem. Chinatown is…well, it's on the bad side of town. A lot of mischief-making goes on down there. Sometimes it's a brick thrown in a shop window. Sometimes it's much worse…." She looked up, noticing Christine's rather frightened expression. "That's not to say that you weren't safe," she added quickly. "In fact, I think of all the people in New York you could have been travelling with, Erik is probably the safest."

Christine nodded in silent agreement. Strange, she mused, that she should feel safe in the arms of a murderer. But Meg made no mention of his past, and for that, Christine was immensely grateful. She continued with her explanation of the outing.

"They were celebrating the Chinese New Year. You would have loved the dancers, Meg! And there was music—and, oh, the lanterns! Oh, you should have seen the lanterns, Meg! They floated all by themselves—as if by magic! There were hundreds—no, _thousands_—of them!" She smiled wistfully. "It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I think Erik enjoyed it, too."

Meg rolled her eyes. "I don't think he was looking at the _lanterns_, Christine."

She blushed. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"Oh, _please_." Meg shoved her arm playfully. "You know perfectly well what I mean. He hasn't been able to take his eyes off you since the moment you arrived!"

Christine frowned. "He seems to have been able to today," she said quietly.

Meg bit her lip. "He did seem a bit…agitated…this morning. I heard the music last night, but I just assumed that he was in one of his moods and that it would blow over. I thought perhaps he was worried about your…er…condition." She frowned. "Did something happen after the lantern show?"

Christine felt the blood rush to her cheeks again. She looked down. "Well…he _did_ kiss me."

Meg clasped her hands excitedly, bouncing up and down in her seat beside Christine. "I _knew _it!" She scooted closer to her friend. "So…what happened next?!"

Christine sighed. "Nothing."

Meg's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "_Nothing?_ What do you mean _nothing_?"

"I _mean_ what I said. Nothing happened. He apologized for allowing his feelings to cloud his judgment, and then we went back to the carriage." She sighed again. "He didn't even speak to me the rest of the night."

Meg gave her friend a sympathetic look. "But Christine, I thought you loved him too. Isn't that the reason you returned to him in the first place? Out of love?" She shook her head. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"I _do _love him, Meg. Very much. Despite his face. Despite what happened at the Opera Populaire. Despite everything. Sometimes it frightens me that I can so easily dismiss his actions, but when I returned to Raoul, I realized that there was something missing—something different than before. He noticed it as well. Before Raoul came along, I had never kissed a man—never been in love. When he came back into my life after being gone for so many years, I thought that I would get the fairytale ending that I always wanted. He made me feel safe and happy…but Erik…Erik made me feel _alive_. He terrifies me sometimes, and yet there are feelings that he stirs within me far stronger than terror. I know it doesn't make sense, Meg, but I love him." She took a deep breath. "And that is why I can never tell him how I feel. Not when we have such little time left to be together." The look in her eyes was one of wisdom far beyond her years. "He loved me enough to let me go once, Meg. Now I must do the same for him."

Meg put a comforting hand on her friend's shoulder. "Christine, I understand what you're trying to do—and it _is_ very noble of you, but…what is that old saying—'Better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all'? Perhaps you should take it into consideration."

"I can't hurt him anymore, Meg."

She smiled sadly. "Christine…it's going to hurt him to lose you no matter what you do. Don't you think you could at least give him a little happiness before you go?"

Christine shook her head, brushing away a few stray tears. "It was selfish of me to even come here."

"It's not being selfish if it's something you both want." She wrapped an arm around Christine's shoulders. "He's made his mistakes, and you've made yours. You can't change that. But you _can_ make a difference in his life. You already have. I didn't know much about him before—only the ghost stories and what little information my mother was willing to spare. Even now, I sometimes feel as if he is a stranger to me. I know very little of his past, and to be honest, what I do know frightens me," she admitted. "He never speaks of it, and I have never asked. But when he speaks of you, there is something different about his person…a softness in his voice…a light in his eyes…. It is unlike anything I have ever witnessed. You're the reason that he's still alive—the reason he's attempting to make an honest living…because he knew it was what you would have wanted. However much it may have hurt him to let you go, his experience with you has made him a better man. Even mother says so, and she has known him far longer than I."

"I don't know what to do, Meg." Christine leaned against her best friend's shoulder for support, the familiar weight of responsibility a burden she wasn't yet ready to bear alone. "I'm so confused."

Meg was quiet for a moment. Then, suddenly, she brightened. "I know what will make you feel better—a girls' day out! That's exactly what you need! And I know the perfect way for us to spend it!"

Christine managed a half-hearted smile. "How's that?"

"You do know what today _is_, don't you?" Meg's eyes sparkled mischievously.

Christine gasped. "Mardis Gras! I'd almost forgotten!"

"And when it's Mardi Gras, there's bound to be a _masquerade ball_ somewhere nearby," she winked.

"Tonight?! But, Meg, I don't have anything to wear!"

The dresses Erik had prepared were beautiful, of course, but they were primarily for everyday use—nothing fancy enough for a ball.

"That's why _we're_ going shopping!" The ballerina grinned. "And, anyway," she continued, "the ball isn't until the end of the week. They decided to wait until Saturday because they thought more people would be able to attend," she explained.

Christine chewed her lip nervously. "I don't know, Meg…."

"Oh, come on! It will be fun! Besides, I don't want to go alone," she pouted.

Christine smiled. "Well…alright."

xxxx

Christine ran her fingers reverently over the rainbow of fabric and lace hanging from the rack in the back of the dress shop. There were dresses for every occasion and every personality—a waterfall of red satin cascading in waves that washed over the hips and down to the floor; a stunning swath of sapphire with long, flowing sleeves; an emerald outfit that clung to the curves and flared just below the hips like the fan of a mermaid's tail. Christine paused at a plum-colored dress that sparkled with sequins.

"Find anything you like?"

She jumped a little at the sound of her friend's voice, turning to face the little blonde-haired ballerina with a frown.

"Meg, the dresses here are wonderful, but I can't afford any of them. After the Opera House burned, I had practically nothing. I salvaged what I could, but even then, if it hadn't been for Raoul, I would have been out on the streets." Her frown deepened. "I had to sell Papa's violin to make ends meet."

She heard Meg gasp, and Christine smiled sadly.

"Raoul would have done more if I'd asked him, but after breaking off the engagement, I didn't think it would be fair. I spent the last franc I had on the tickets to America."

Meg, who had already decided upon a magnificent midnight-blue dress with a faux diamond-studded bodice and black lace fringe, shook her head, blonde curls bouncing off her shoulders. "You don't have to worry about paying for it. I'll cover it." She smiled.

Christine knew that she meant well, but there was the niggling thought in the back of her mind that the money wasn't really Meg's to spend. All that the Girys had, they owed to Erik—though in truth, he owed his life to them. But while Meg would eventually be able to repay him with her work on the stage, Christine had no such hopes of earning her keep. Already, she was relying on him for food and a roof over her head—she wondered briefly what she would have done if he'd decided to turn her away—and to spend more of his money on something as frivolous as a ball gown seemed ungrateful.

Sensing her discomfort, Meg gently touched her arm. "If it makes you feel any better, I'll pay him back for the dress as soon as I get my first paycheck from the Opera. But honestly," she smiled, "I don't think he'd mind spending a little extra on _you_."

Christine blushed. "That doesn't mean I should take advantage of his generosity."

Meg rolled her eyes. "Look, if he says anything about it, I'll take the blame, alright? You worry too much." She shooed her friend away. "Now go on! Go pick out a dress, or I'm going to pick one _for _you!"

Christine laughed. "Alright! Alright! I'm going!" She huffed in mock frustration. "But I can't decide! They're all so beautiful!" She glanced up at Meg. "What are you going as?"

Although it was technically a masquerade ball, the highlight of the annual Mardis Gras celebration was the parade of costumes that ranged from beautiful to bizarre. Though there were fewer practicing Catholics here in New York, everyone loved an excuse to dress up, and for many, the ball was the high point in entertainment for the year.

Meg held up a mask she'd found that matched the dress perfectly. It was a deep blue velvet with silver swirls and stars embroidered in the fabric. On the right side a crescent moon curved around the opening for the eye. A few dark feathers fluttered like oversized eyelashes from either side of the mask.

She grinned. "The night sky. What about you? Any ideas?"

Christine sighed, flipping through the dresses on the rack. "No, not y—Oh!"

She stopped suddenly, hand poised just above the next hanger on the rack. Slowly, she lowered her fingers to the fabric, running her hand over the snow-white silk. It was entirely sleeveless with a few dangling chains of false diamonds that draped off the side of each shoulder that were more for looks than actual support. The bodice was tightly fitted and decorated with white and silvery sequins that swirled in a floral pattern that sprouted at the far right of the waist and bloomed just over the left portion of the breast. The skirt tapered gently at the waist, gradually broadening into a bell-shaped bottom in overlapping waves of fabric that barely brushed the floor. It reminded her of a Christmas angel perched atop a towering evergreen tree.

As if reading her thoughts, Meg gave her a playful nudge. "An angel for your Angel, hmm?"

"Yes…" she murmured almost inaudibly. "Yes, it's perfect."

xxxx

By the time they arrived back at the apartment, Christine's headache had resurfaced, and despite her attempts to smile and laugh, Meg saw right through the act.

"Christine, why don't you go lie down for awhile? You don't look like you're feeling well."

"I'm fine, Meg, really! I—"

But as if to prove Meg's point, Christine suddenly stumbled, reaching toward the piano for support, her fingers barely grazing the edge of the smooth wood surface as she fell to the ground, spilling the contents of her shopping bag in a heap of feathers and silk out on the floor.

Meg dropped the bag she was holding and rushed to her side.

"Christine! Christine, are you alright?!"

Though she appeared physically unharmed, there were tears in her eyes when she sat up. "Oh, Meg, I'm so tired of all of this," she sobbed. "The headaches, the falling, the fatigue—I just want it to stop!"

Meg frowned, the lighthearted atmosphere of their day in town suddenly overshadowed by a foreboding somber mood. She helped her best friend to her feet.

"Come on, Christine," she whispered. "Let's get you to bed."

xxxx

Erik was pacing inside his office. He hadn't been able to sit still all day, for although he'd come to work on the premise of assessing the cast's progress, his mind was not on the production. He'd been in a foul mood all morning, and after snapping one too many times at dancer who was barely out of place or a singer who was even slightly off key, Madame Giry had taken him aside, more or less kicking him out of the auditorium so they could practice in peace. He paused when he heard a knock at the door. Growling under his breath, he strode over his desk, gripping the sides until his knuckles were white to keep from strangling whoever it was that had the gall to interrupt his brooding.

"Enter!"

His grip slackened when he recognized the face at the door. Madame Giry merely nodded as she stepped inside, closing the door behind her.

"I just wanted to see if everything is alright. You left in quite a hurry."

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, one gloved finger touching skin, the other resting against the smooth porcelain of the mask. "You know that it is not."

"Perhaps you would like to check on her? I can close up tonight if you want."

"No," he shook his head. "I won't ask that of you. You have enough to worry about as it is."

"Yes, and right now, I'm worried about _you_." She frowned. "You're not doing anyone any good here—not the cast, and certainly not her—at least, not with your current attitude." She lowered her voice. "I'm sorry I had to remove you from the rehearsals, but I think you were making the cast a bit nervous with your constant interruptions."

Erik dropped his gaze. "Give them my apologies. They are ready—beyond ready. I'm certain opening night will be a success." Even by the standards of his remorseless perfectionism, they were an excellent group. But today he'd been even more fastidious than usual. He sighed again, running his fingers through the dark strands of his wig. "I'm afraid I was just looking for things to go wrong today."

Madame Giry nodded understandingly. She was quiet for a moment before responding. "Erik, why are you not at home with Christine? It is obvious that you do not wish to be here. For _months _you have talked of nothing but her, yet now that she is here, you choose to advance your career rather than spend time with her."

"It's not that simple."

She looked concerned. "Erik, this is not like you. What happened?"

"That is none of your concern," he growled.

The ballet mistress crossed her arms. "It is every bit of my concern! You _know _Christine is like family to me." She frowned. "And if you weren't so stubborn, you would know that you are as well." Her eyes softened at his genuinely surprised expression. "I wouldn't have claimed you as my brother if I didn't truly think of you as one." She put a hand on his arm. "I just want you to be happy—_both_ of you."

"She doesn't want me there," he whispered.

"What?"

Erik clenched his jaw. "I'm not at home because she doesn't want me there." He shook his head. "I overstepped my bounds. I forgot my place." He closed his eyes. "Last night I showed her my affections…and she made it rather clear that they remain unwanted. I want to respect her wishes." He turned to face the ballet mistress, putting his hands on her shoulders. "But I can't. Not as long as she's in the same room. Not when I want nothing more than to take her into my arms, and she wants nothing but a friend." He dropped his hands to his sides. "So I came here…. It is the only way that I find I can avoid offending her with any unwelcome attention."

"Erik..."

"I can't be what she wants me to be, Antoinette." He sighed. "And she can't give me what I need from her. You cannot force yourself to love someone. I understand that now…."

"But you _do_ love her, _non_?"

"With all my heart."

"Then you will do what is best for her."

Erik glared. "What is _that_ supposed to mean? Am I not doing what is best for her by being here?"

Madame Giry looked at him pointedly. "I think you know the answer to that question."

Then, with a quick turn of her heels and a tap of her cane, she was gone. Erik stared after her, watching as she walked down the darkened corridor that led to the stage until her silhouette merged with the shadows and he could no longer make out her willowy dancer's figure, the quiet tapping of her cane slowly fading into silence.

Leaning against the doorframe, he sighed. He knew the answer she was looking for, but he wasn't ready to give it.


	10. The Masquerade Ball

**Chapter Nine: The Masquerade Ball**

Erik was purposefully late coming home that evening. Rehearsals had lasted longer than usual—partially due to his ever-constant interruptions and partially because the big debut was fast approaching—the winter sun having set several hours before the last note was sung, so it came as a bit of surprise to everyone when the masked musician remained behind even as he shooed the last of the performers out for the evening, giving the excuse that he needed to finalize some paperwork regarding a few of the actors' contracts. Madame Giry had raised an eyebrow at his rather obvious pretense but remained quiet on the matter, reluctantly leaving him to his supposed work with a small, disapproving frown.

It wasn't entirely a lie, he reasoned—the paperwork _did_ need to be completed. But the forms had been sitting on the desk all day, and despite ample time to fill them out, they remained untouched, his mind far too consumed with thoughts of Christine to allow him to focus on the task at hand. And so he turned to the only thing that ever brought relief from his dark thoughts—music.

Oh, to be able to compose again! Morphine was nothing compared to this, the sheer ecstasy of music flowing from his fingertips onto the page. He didn't need accompaniment to bring the notes to life—the music was pounding in his head, flowing in his veins, pulsing in his heart—each little black stroke of the pen leaping off the page and into the air like a flock of tiny birds taking flight off of a fence line. He could have stayed all night working on the piece—and if he had still been the infamous Phantom, he would have—but while Opera Ghosts and Angels are free to come and go as they please, men are bound by the constraints of time, and if he wanted to be at least somewhat functional in the morning, he knew that he would need at least a few hours of sleep. Of course, he supposed that he could always sleep here at his desk—and the thought was very tempting—but if he overslept, he ran the risk of being caught sleeping on the job, and if he didn't return to the apartment soon, Madame Giry would likely come looking for him. Such were the disadvantages of being an ordinary man. And yet, the very thought of having someone concerned enough about his well-being to meddle in his affairs brought a small smile to his face. He had always considered Antoinette a friend, but in the wake of their most recent tragedy at the Opera Populaire, they had grown closer, and her attempts at playing "mother hen"—while often bothersome—were appreciated more than he let on. In the end, however, it was the need for morphine rather than the worries of a mother that compelled his feet to drag him home.

It was well after midnight by the time he arrived home, the roaring fire reduced to a heap of snowy ashes, stirring slightly in the rush of cool breeze that entered the room as he closed the door behind him. A soft glow emanating from beneath Madame Giry's door told him that the ballet mistress was not yet asleep and had been waiting patiently for his arrival. On the stovetop in the kitchen a pot of soup that had grown cold waited for reheating. A bowl at his spot at the table sat unused. He wasn't particularly hungry, but he hated for the food to go to waste when Antoinette had put so much work into preparing it. Turning up the gas lamp that sat between the chair and sofa, he walked over to the stove, carefully lifting the lid from the pot so as not to wake the girls and setting it down on the counter. Taking the bowl from the table, he ladled out some of the soup. He didn't really care if it was cold. He'd lived off of much worse before, and at the moment, he didn't feel like taking the time to reheat it. As he moved to place the bowl back on the table, he caught a brief flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. When he looked up, he was surprised to see not the ballet mistress he'd been expecting but a rather sleepy-looking Christine peering around the corner of the hall.

She squinted her eyes in the bright light of the gas lamp. "Erik? Are you just now getting back?"

"Christine! I-I'm sorry. Did I wake you?" he sputtered. It was a wonder he hadn't dropped the bowl of soup still in his hand.

She shook her head. "I woke up with a headache and I couldn't get back to sleep."

She looked so innocent standing there in her nightgown, white robe hanging haphazardly across her shoulders—like a young girl on Christmas morning, eyes aglow with childlike wonder. Her hair was delectably disheveled, spilling over her shoulders in unkempt curls still frizzy from lying against the pillow, and her feet bore no shoes, the creamy white skin of her lower legs reflected in the polished shine of the hardwood floor. She wasn't wearing any makeup, nor did she need it, her natural beauty only more apparent to his eyes without the added layers of powder and perfume. Her tired smile was warm and inviting. It was amazing how breathtakingly beautiful she was without even trying. Only in his wildest dreams had he ever seen her like this before, and only the taste of blood from where he'd been nervously biting his lip—a bit harder than he'd intended—assured him that he was, in fact, awake. He wanted her now more than ever, and yet he knew that he could never have her. Erik suppressed a frustrated growl, deliberately averting his gaze. This was exactly what he had been hoping to avoid.

_Does she have any idea what she's doing to me right now?_

_Probably not_, he reasoned. _A part of her still wants to believe you are an angel—that you can do no wrong and that your thoughts of her are pure. You have not behaved like the Phantom in so long that she has forgotten how dangerous you are. She expects you to see her as a protégé and nothing more._

He remembered, then, the night that they'd first met—the night when he'd first seen the little orphan girl in the chapel crying as she prayed, her thin cotton nightgown dirty from where she had been kneeling on the floor—and wished that he had never brought the Angel of Music to life in her mind.

_Even now she does not see me as a man. An angel or a demon, a phantom or a ghost—perhaps even a teacher or a friend—but never a man. Never someone she could love._

It was a wonder that her faith had never faltered after what he supposed must have been a horrifying revelation. And he suddenly hated himself all the more for the possibility of having lead one so pure astray, for while he remained skeptical of God's existence, to shatter the faith of the innocent was a sin that even _he_ believed was worthy of the fires of hell. And if heaven did exist, that she should be cast out for a sin wherein he was to blame was a thought he could not bear.

But despite it all—despite the lies and the deception and the pain that he had caused—he could not bring himself to regret having made her acquaintance, for the years that he had been her Angel had been the happiest of his life.

The lilting sound of her voice brought him out of his reverie, and he noticed that she had made her way to the kitchen, taking the seat across from where the soup bowl in his hand still hovered just above the tabletop.

"I…I was wondering if I could talk to you…." she asked, "about…about what happened yesterday." She looked away shyly before looking up to meet his gaze. "I'm sorry if I offended you. It was just…unexpected…and—"

"I'd rather not discuss it." He turned around to place the bowl back on the counter, needing an excuse to look away. He suddenly seemed to have lost what little appetite he had. "It was something I never should have done, and it will not happen again," he promised.

He glanced briefly at her out of the corner of his eye to gauge her reaction. Was that a flicker of disappointment in her eyes? He shook his head. _Now I'm just imagining things._

She bit her lip. "I want to make it up to you."

He turned slightly at the suggestion, curious to see what she might have to say.

She took a deep a deep breath. "There's going to be a masquerade ball this Saturday at Webster Hall…." [1]

She paused for a moment, hoping he would understand the insinuation in her words. But he remained passive, seemingly uninterested, and waited patiently for her to continue.

"Meg invited me to go and I was wondering…well, I was hoping that you might come with us…with me…."

Christine blushed at the forwardness of her words. For a woman to initiate such an invitation seemed terribly improper, but perhaps it would assure him of her feelings. Perhaps he would forgive her cold reception of his kiss.

Erik closed his eyes and sighed. Oh, to dance with Christine! To hold her body close to his. To feel her head against his chest. To watch her twirl and spin and laugh for hours on end. It would be paradise, if only for a moment, to have her in his arms. But what then? What would happen when the ball was over? When the clock struck twelve, the spell would be broken, and he would once again have to settle with seeing her from afar. He didn't think he could do it.

_How dare she play with your emotions! _his mind screamed. _How dare she tempt you with such hope only to snatch it away again!_

"Do you take me for a fool?"

Christine looked confused. "What? No, I—"

He whirled to face her. "Then _why _do you insist on making a mockery of me?! A _masquerade_ ball, you say? Quite fun, indeed—unless you have to wear a mask all the time, of course." Erik glared. His temper was getting the best of him, but he couldn't stop. "Are you so ashamed of being seen with me in public that that is the _only _social event for which my presence would not offend you?!"

"NO! I just thought—"

He began circling the table. "You _thought_ that I'd say yes. You thought you'd get your way because you _always _do." There was venom in his voice. "Oh, _yes!_ Perfect, beautiful, wonderful Christine _always_ gets what she wants! It's easy when you're beautiful, isn't it? A bat of the eyes here, a few tears there, and you have the whole world falling at your feet!" He grabbed her by the shoulders. "WELL, WHAT ABOUT WHAT _I_ WANT?!"

The moment the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them. Brown eyes wide with fear stared up at him, filling quickly with tears of humiliation and disappointment. He hadn't meant to make her cry. The grip on her shoulders slackened, and he bowed his head in shame, giving a sigh of defeat as he turned away from her yet again, unable to bear the emotion in her eyes.

Christine slowly stood from her chair, approaching with the caution that one uses when advancing toward an injured animal before laying a tentative hand on his shoulder. He didn't have to turn around to know that she was crying. Every flutter of her dark lashes spilled another tear, and every tear that fell was like a knife twisted in his heart.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I just thought that it would be something we could both enjoy together. But I see that I was wrong…. Goodnight, Erik."

He felt the warmth of her hand slip from his shoulder. It had only been there for a moment, but he already missed it. He considered stopping her, but by the time he had worked up the courage, the familiar tapping of a cane told him that Christine was already gone…and he was probably going to get a lecture.

"Erik…"

"Leave me." He still refused to turn around.

Madame Giry sighed. "You know, Erik, for someone who has spent his entire life alone, you are very good at pushing away those who actually _do _love you."

xxxx

The remainder of the week passed slowly, the relatively comfortable atmosphere of the little flat replaced by an obvious tension so thick it made the air sickly sweet and hard to swallow.

Erik threw himself into his work, finding any excuse he possibly could to keep him late. One day he decided to conduct an inventory of the entire costume department, and when that failed to keep him occupied, he feigned a miscalculation and counted everything again.

Christine spent most of the week at the apartment, her health wavering from day to day. On good days, she and Meg would laugh and talk of their days at the Opera, reminiscing about the time that Sorelli lost her footing in the middle of _La Traviata _or the day Carlotta lost her voice from repeatedly screaming at the managers. On bad days, she hardly left the bed, sleeping for hours on end until another bout of nauseating headaches made it too difficult for her to rest.

Meg enjoyed taking time off from her work to visit with her friend, but Erik's obvious avoidance of Christine worried her. Though she had heard at least part of their late-night argument about the dance, she dared not bring it up. The masquerade ball had become a taboo subject neither of the girls was willing to touch, Christine unsure of whether she even wanted to go now that Erik had so rudely rejected the invitation, and Meg feeling incredibly guilty for having given her the idea in the first place, squirming in discomfort whenever both parties were present in the room.

Madame Giry surveyed the entire affair with a sort of detached coolness, refusing to take sides on the issue or cause any further disturbance, but while she did not voice her opinion aloud, her disapproving frown whenever Erik came home glaring daggers was enough to let him know that she was not happy with the situation, his cold civility toward Christine during a few brief unavoidable encounters having done nothing to improve the girl's rapidly deteriorating condition.

All in all, it was a quiet week. There was no arguing, no shouting, no tears…but neither was there warmth or affection. Christine realized, then, that she had come to take Erik's love for granted; she felt more a prisoner now than she ever had within the lair. Even at his very worst at the Opera House in Paris, she had always known somewhere deep inside that his actions, horrible though they might have been, were somehow in his mind a manifestation of love. Even in the year that they had spent apart, his love had been present in her heart. But now that familiar presence was gone, replaced by an attempt to shield all of his emotions from the world. It was almost as if he was trying to force himself not to love her—and if Christine hadn't known any better, she might have believed it—but she knew now that such a feat was impossible. She had tried to forget him as well and failed miserably in doing so. They were destined to love each other, it seemed, but not to be together as they would have liked. Somehow life always seemed to get in the way.

xxxx

Christine nervously fidgeted with her mask as the carriage pulled up in front of Webster Hall, the silvery beads dangling underneath each eye tickling her cheeks as she fussed over the white spray of feathers that sprouted from the center. Despite her anxiety about attending the masked ball after the argument with Erik, Meg's infectious excitement had eventually gotten the best of her, and after several days of being cooped up in the apartment, she was more than ready for an excuse to get out of the house. But as they stepped out onto the street, she became anxious again.

"I don't know, Meg…. What if I fall again or start feeling ill and we have to leave the party early? I don't want to ruin the evening."

"Well, you're definitely going to ruin it if you have _that_ attitude," Meg teased. "Come on, Christine! When was the last time you went dancing?"

Christine's face suddenly fell. There was a distant look in her eyes. "A little over a year ago," she whispered, "at the New Year's masquerade ball…in Paris…."

Had it really been that long ago, she wondered? It seemed like only yesterday she had been dancing in Raoul's arms, dreaming of a future which she no longer had, whispering of love that she knew nothing of. She had been a child then, a foolish, selfish child who had acted carelessly with the hearts of two men and ended up breaking both because she was not strong enough to choose. They were all to blame, she supposed—Erik for his deception, Raoul for his misplaced good intentions, and she for her indecisiveness. They had put her in a difficult position before she had been ready, and the combined pressures of her rise to stardom and her personal life had simply been too much. She had never meant to hurt either of them, of course, but the heart cannot be compromised, and in the end she had made the wrong decision. Now that she knew what she should have done, was it too late?

She had hoped that this time things might have gone differently, that it might have been her chance to start anew. She imagined Erik in his Red Death costume, a long red cape sweeping the floor behind him as he descended the stairs, looking longingly into her eyes as he had that night. If only she hadn't been wearing that ring around her neck…if only her heart had been strong enough to see the suffering behind the anger and the threats…where would they be now?

Meg frowned. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring that up…."

Christine shook her head sadly. "It's not your fault he didn't want to come." She shrugged, giving her friend a small smile. "_I _thought it was a good idea." She rubbed her bare arms, shivering. "It's _freezing_ out here! I hope it's warmer inside!"

Meg nodded. "Let's go."

The ballroom was already crowded by the time they stepped inside. A thousand brightly colored costumes, each one feathered or bejeweled, filled the dance floor from the fireplace in the back to the refreshment table in the front. Some were sipping wine by the fireside, gossiping about the latest fashions and faux pas. Others were mingling with the crowd, catching up with old friends they hadn't seen in ages and laughing at how ridiculous they looked. A few simply stood by themselves, unsure of whether they should join the fray or simply stand aside until they found a dancing partner for the night. In the far left corner of the room, a small group of musicians had gathered, each man testing his instrument to ensure it was in tune.

A sudden voice from behind startled Christine out of her survey of the room.

"Meg Giry, is tha' you underneath all those feathers?"

Both girls turned to face the man who had addressed her. He was a young man, perhaps in his mid-twenties, with vibrant orange hair and smiling blue eyes. He was wearing a gold-colored suit and matching mask with a fiery sun peeking out over his right eye. Christine raised an eyebrow, giving Meg a knowing smile. It was no accident that their costumes matched.

Meg blushed deeply. "Hello, Jeffrey. What are you doing here? I thought you said you couldn't come."

"Change o' plans," he smiled. "I had a hard time findin' the costume at the last minute, but I wanted to surprise you."

He had a hint of an Irish lilt that made it a bit difficult for Christine, who was still learning English, to understand all of his words. Nevertheless, she found his voice surprisingly pleasing and thought he would make an excellent tenor if given the proper vocal training.

Meg turned to face her. "Christine, this is Jeffrey. He's one of the chorus singers for the upcoming production of _Faust_. I would have introduced you to him on Sunday—he's usually in the choir—but he wasn't able to be there this week. He's my…well," she blushed again, "we've been…courting." She turned back to the young man. "Jeffrey, this is my best friend, Christine. She just arrived from Paris here last week."

He took her hand, politely kissing the back of her white glove. "A pleasure to meet you, Christine. I've 'eard you're quite the little songbird yourself! You should come audition for the next production if you're plannin' on stayin' for awhile."

Meg gave her an apologetic smile. Though she had informed him of her friend's former prestige—leaving out, of course, the details regarding a certain phantom—she had not mentioned the frailty of her current health.

Christine merely shrugged it off, smiling at the memory of Erik's fantasy of her returning to the stage. "I'm not sure I'll be here that long," she answered honestly, "but I'll certainly consider it."

Just then, the music started up, and the crowd began to clear away, leaving the floor open for the dancers. Jeffrey offered Meg his hand.

"May I 'ave this dance?"

Meg glanced briefly at Christine, unsure of whether she should leave her friend alone when she had no partner of her own. Christine just laughed, playfully shooing her away.

"Go have fun, Meg. I'll catch up with you later."

xxxx

Erik ran his thumb over the smooth glass surface of the pocket watch in his hand, watching as the seconds ticked away. For the many years he'd spent beneath the Opera House, time had been irrelevant. In a world of darkness where the sun never rose or set, the hours merged into the days and days merged into years. When he first returned to the surface world, it had been difficult for him to adjust to a society where men worked strictly by the clock and punctuality was praised. He had never truly realized the value of a moment's peace and quiet until he came to understand just how scarce such a privilege often was. Even in Persia, though time was kept, it seemed to have passed slower. But New Yorkers were fast-paced, with a no-nonsense sort of attitude that gave him the impression that they probably knew exactly how long it took to drink a cup of tea down to the second. It was an admirable quality, he supposed, but it seemed to him that the more time-conscious one became, the less he came to value what little time he did have with the ones who meant the most—an affliction to which he now realized that he was not immune. Every second that ticked by was another second off her life, another breath she'd never take, another heartbeat closer to her last. Time measured in heartbeats somehow seemed more important than the little black second hand let on. It was 11:03. Precisely two hours and three minutes since the masquerade ball had begun. He wondered what Christine was doing right now….

"You've been staring at that watch every five minutes for the past two hours." Madame Giry took a seat on the sofa beside him, a steaming cup of tea in her right hand. She took a sip. "Why don't you go?"

"I can't." His eyes never left the clock.

"Why not? Because your pride will not allow it? Erik, are you really so selfish that you would deny what very well may be Christine's dying wish?"

Erik glared. "You know that is not the case. I would do anything for her," he whispered.

"Then _go_. She obviously wants you to be there or she would not have invited you."

He scoffed. "Do you honestly think she still wants to see me there? After the way I reacted?"

Madame Giry gave an exasperated sigh, setting down her tea. "Erik, you know that I consider you a friend—family even. You have many good qualities despite your faults—your attempts to honor Christine's wishes and her virtue are evidence of that." She crossed her arms. "But you are, without a doubt, the most _stubborn_ man that I have ever met."

"You know, I've killed people for saying less than that." His tone was serious, but the slight curve of his lips suggested otherwise.

The ballet mistress returned the smile. "Yes, I know. I've had to bail you out of things more than once."

He was quiet for a moment. "Thank you."

Though he had often thought the words, he'd never spoken them aloud.

Madame Giry smiled. "You'd have done the same for me."

Erik merely nodded. There were few who he could honestly say he'd risk everything for, but Antoinette was one of them. He closed his eyes.

"I can't lose her," he whispered. "Whether by her will or by her God's, she will leave me again." He looked up. "I can't go to the ball tonight because I know that if I get the chance to hold her, I'll never be able to let her go." He laughed bitterly. "Besides, I have no costume. What would I go as? Myself? 'The Phantom of Manhattan' doesn't have quite the same ring to it, does it?" [2]

Madame Giry frowned thoughtfully. After a moment of hesitation, she stood and began walking toward the bedroom. She turned and held up a hand when she heard him start stand.

"Wait here."

Momentarily, she returned with a box in her hands. She held it out to him. Noticing the question in his gaze, she gave a quick nod.

"Open it."

He did so with caution, removing the lid with the utmost care and setting it aside. He gasped when he saw what was inside. With a trembling hand, he reached into the box, pulling out a stack of papers he had thought long gone—drawings of Christine, snags of poetry he'd written, bits and pieces of musical scores, a rough draft of some of the songs from _Don Juan Triumphant_—and beneath the papers….

"Red Death," he whispered. "My masquerade ball costume." He looked up. "You've had this all this time? Why did you never show it to me before?"

"I didn't know if you were ready. After the mob was gone, I salvaged what I could—what I thought would be important to you. I kept waiting for the right time to give it to you, but the box held so many memories that I wasn't even sure if you would want to look inside."

He fingered the red and gold fabric of the shirt. "It's too late to go now. There's less than an hour left."

He was grasping at straws now, and he knew it, looking for any possible valid excuse to avoid going. Madame Giry knew it too.

"Better late than never."

Erik sighed. _I should have seen that one coming. _

Reluctantly, he stood. He had really hoped it wouldn't have come down to this. "Then I suppose," he admitted, "that only one problem remains."

Madame Giry put her hands on her hips, skeptical. "And what problem might that be?"

Erik closed his eyes, his jaw tightening at the confession. "I don't know how to dance."

xxxx

Before Raoul had come into her life, Christine had always been a bit of a wallflower. She was incredibly shy until one got to know her, and her timid personality combined with the polite hesitancy to interrupt often found her alone without a dance partner. So she was not surprised to find herself once again standing quietly by the punchbowl, absentmindedly sipping at her drink and staring at the other dancers with a mixture of longing and relief. Even if one of the men here did ask her for a dance, she wasn't sure she'd be able understand him…and there was really only one man she wanted to dance with tonight. She sighed. The headache was coming back again, and the hour was getting late. She was just about to consider catching a cab back to the apartment when a familiar smiling face framed with blonde curls emerged from the crowd, hand in hand with a certain Irishman.

"Christine, why aren't you dancing?" Meg demanded. "Surely _someone _has asked you for a dance?"

Christine shook her head. "It's fine, Meg." She tried to smile.

Meg frowned. "You're still waiting for him, aren't you?"

"The night isn't over yet," she protested weakly.

Meg bit her lip. It was nearly 11:30. If the former Phantom had not yet arrived, she highly doubted that he ever would. She gave her friend a sympathetic look.

"You can dance with Jeffrey for awhile if you like. I'm sure he wouldn't mind." She glanced briefly at her dance partner, who gave a nod and smiled.

"O' course," he answered. "It would be m' pleasure."

Christine smiled. "Thank you, Jeffrey, but that's really not necessary. I'd rather you and Meg enjoy your time together tonight."

He nodded, understanding. "Well, whoever 'e is, 'e ought tah be strung up for standin' up a beautiful lass such as yourself." He smiled. "Why, if 'e was 'ere, I'd—"

"You'd _what_, Jeffrey?"

Christine froze at the familiar voice. She turned slowly to face him, afraid that it must have been some trick of her mind. But when at last she met his gaze, he did not disappear.

"You came," she breathed.

Erik offered her an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry I'm late."

Dressed in the Red Death costume she so vividly remembered, he cut an imposing figure. From the frightening skull mask that covered the entire upper section of his face to the black boots that added at least another two inches to his already impressive height, he was certainly a sight to behold. The red velvet and gold trimming were as bright as the day that they had first been worn, giving him the appearance of a nobleman or king. Already he had attracted the attention of more than a few passing single ladies, and Christine couldn't help but feel slightly angry with the women who were so obviously superficial. They thought him handsome now, of course, but would they if they knew the truth? She was ashamed to think that she had once been like them, looking on the outward appearance of a man to judge his inward character. Erik had many flaws—internal as well as external—but she could now see that he was more than just his scars. If only he would give her another chance to show him how she felt….

Erik turned back to Jeffrey, who had flushed the color of a tomato. "I do hope you won't 'string me up' before the performance next month. I think the manager should be present for opening night, don't you?"

"Erm…uh…Y-yes, sir."

Erik chuckled softly at the boy's discomfort at having been caught. He glanced at Meg, who was trying not to laugh at her suitor's obvious blunder and guiltily avoiding her supposed uncle's gaze.

"I apologize for interrupting," he said, "but I'm afraid I must steal a certain angel away for the night." His eyes flickered to Christine before looking back at the young Irishman. "Don't keep her out _too_ late, Jeffrey. I want the both of you to be well-rested come Monday for the rehearsals."

"Yes, sir."

Taking Christine's hand, he noticed the other couple start to leave. He called after them.

"Oh, and Jeffrey?"

The young man glanced back over his shoulder.

Erik gave him a bemused smile. "Mind your tongue before you go making any more empty threats. That's going get you into trouble, and I'd hate to lose my best aspiring tenor."

The Irishman grinned sheepishly.

Erik shook his head as he watched the two of them depart.

"Meg seems to really like him," Christine observed. "He appears to be quite the gentleman from what I've seen."

"He's a good boy," Erik affirmed.

Though his primary concern had always been Christine, throughout the years, Meg had earned his respect and had often been the recipient of his protective intervention at the Opera Populaire—whether she realized it or not. Potential suitors were no exception. But Jeffrey had proven to be surprisingly likeable.

"His voice needs a little work before he's ready for any of the larger roles," he added, "but I could certainly see him accomplishing such a goal by the end of the season."

"What changed your mind?" Christine suddenly asked. She blushed when she noticed his surprised expression. "I-I mean I'm glad that you're here, but I thought…."

He sighed. "I was a fool, Christine. I knew you never meant any harm by the invitation. In all honesty, I'm flattered that you even asked. But after what happened the other night, I…." He closed his eyes. "I tend to jump to conclusions when I am…out of sorts. I look for cruel intentions where there are none." He took both her hands in his and looked into her eyes. "Can you forgive me?"

She smiled slowly. "In exchange for a dance."

Erik's face fell. "Then I'm afraid you're going to be disappointed."

Her brows knit in confusion.

"Please don't misunderstand me," he added hurriedly. "It isn't that I do not _wish_ to dance with you so much as that I _cannot_."

Christine shook her head. "I don't understand."

He sighed again, licking his lips nervously. "I have never danced with a woman before."

Christine blushed again, remembering the feel of his hands drifting over her body the night they had performed on stage together. "What about Don Juan?"

"Don Juan is a fictional character whose every move was choreographed for him," he reminded her.

"But didn't _you_ plan the choreography?"

"Indeed. But dancing for an audience and dancing for pleasure are two very different things. Ballets, operas—those are things I understand, things I have lived and breathed for the majority of my life. But when it comes to waltzes and other such social dances, I'm afraid my knowledge and experience is severely lacking."

"I could teach you if you like," she offered shyly.

Erik hesitated, his eyes darting briefly to the back of the room where the orchestra was still playing. The old grandfather clock in the corner showed that it was less than ten minutes until midnight, when the ball officially ended. If he was going to dance with her, it was now or never, and he wanted it to be something memorable.

"Would you excuse me for a moment, Christine?"

She nodded, slightly disappointed. That hadn't been the response she was expecting.

Reluctantly, he let go of her hand. "I should only be a moment," he reassured her.

Christine tried to follow him with her gaze, but she soon lost sight of him amid the crowd. Despite the high-heeled shoes that she was wearing, she was still too short to see over all the dancers' heads, their brightly colored costumes blending into a shifting sea of colors that made it difficult to pick out an individual. But Erik was true to his word, and a few minutes later, he returned.

"Where did you go?" she asked curiously.

"I needed to speak with someone."

Suddenly, the mood of the music shifted, the gentle tinkling of piano keys joining the soft hum of the strings. The melody was unfamiliar yet so entrancingly beautiful that she quite nearly forgot her dancing partner had returned until he offered her his hand.

"Shall we?"

He led Christine out onto the dance floor where she positioned his right hand behind her back as she put her left hand on his shoulder, blushing at the closeness of their bodies. She noticed a slight wince when she moved his arm but decided to remain quiet on the matter, resolving to speak with Madame Giry about her concerns on the way to church the following morning.

The chatter of the crowd died down as a singer joined the orchestra for the last performance of the night. [3]

_You're in my arms_

_And all the world is calm_

_The music playing on for only two_

_So close together_

_And when I'm with you_

_So close to feeling alive_

Erik's heart was pounding. Through the fingers of his glove, he could feel the warmth radiating from her skin, the thin black leather the only thing separating his hand from the bare skin of her upper back. He knew he should be watching the other dancers, watching his own feet to make sure he didn't miss a step…but he couldn't take his eyes off of Christine.

_A life goes by_

_Romantic dreams will stop_

_So I bid mine goodbye and never knew_

_So close was waiting, waiting here with you_

_And now forever I know_

_All that I wanted to hold you_

_So close_

This was the song that he had written for her the night of her arrival in New York…and now they were dancing to it! Dancing just like a couple, just like he had always dreamed they would, the Devil and the Angel waltzing hand in hand…. There was no choreography this time, no romantic plot that she had been forced into or characters that she had been forced to play. Now there was just Christine, dancing willingly in his arms. And the emotion that suddenly swelled within his heart was almost overwhelming.

_So close to reaching that famous happy end_

_Almost believing this was not pretend_

_And now you're beside me and look how far we've come_

_So far we are so close_

She spun as he extended his left arm, her dress sweeping the ground as she glided across floor, but the sudden movement seemed to trigger another one of her dizzy spells. She started to stumble, gasping softly as Erik caught her in his arms before she had the chance to fall, pulling her close again. He held her there for a moment, leaning over her and looking deep into her eyes, but she turned her head away, blushing, before he had the chance to see what she was thinking.

_Oh, how could I face the faceless days_

_If I should lose you now_

_We're so close_

_To reaching that famous happy end_

_And almost believing this was not pretend_

_Let's go on dreaming for we know we are_

The masquerade was coming to an end. From somewhere in the back of the room, the old grandfather clock could be heard beginning the first of many chimes announcing the hour. Couples around the room began removing their masks to seal their last dance with a kiss.

_So close…_

He felt Christine's fingers brush lovingly against his cheek, her thumb gently rubbing the edge of the mask, and his heart suddenly clenched in fear. Would she expose him here as she had on stage? Would she kiss him when it was off? Would the humiliation be worth it if she did?

_So close…_

She surprised him by doing neither. Instead, she gave him a small, apologetic smile and slowly let her hand return to his shoulder, closing her eyes and leaning her head against his chest.

_And still so far…_

A flood of relief washed over him, followed by a twinge of disappointment. Even here, it seemed, amid a sea of masked faces, he could never be a normal man. He could never be the man that she deserved. And so, blinking back the tidal wave of emotions assaulting his heart, he did the one thing that he could do and held her close in an embrace for as long she would let him.

[1] Webster Hall actually did exist in the 1800s and often hosted dances and other social functions, such as masquerade balls. However, I have no idea what the inside of the building looked like in the 1800s, so I'm just making up the description of the ballroom.

[2] Yes, I'm poking fun at _The Phantom of Manhattan_, which if I understand correctly was the basis for _Love Never Dies_. From what I understand, LND was actually an improvement from the book. I try to be open-minded, but when a book's summary suggests that the Phantom actually forced himself on Christine, I have no desire to read it. Erik may be capable of many things, but rape isn't one of them.

[3] The song used in this chapter is "So Close" by John McLaughlin from the soundtrack to Disney's _Enchanted_.

5


	11. The Nightingale and the Rose

**Chapter Ten: The Nightingale and the Rose**

By the time they returned home from the masquerade ball, Christine was so physically drained of energy that Erik literally had to carry her up the steps—a task which, although he did not mind, made him more aware of just how frail her health was becoming. He silently cursed himself for keeping her out so late.

_If you'd just accepted her invitation to begin with, she wouldn't have been standing around waiting for hours. You could have had a dance or two and then come home before she got so tired._

But she was looking at him in a way that no one ever had before, giving him a dazzling smile that he'd once thought reserved for Raoul. In fact, she hadn't stopped smiling since they started dancing. It was an intoxicating smile, the kind of smile that lead to kisses that eventually lead to something more. More than once during his days in Paris he had seen a bashful ballet girl give that sort of smile to a young stagehand right before they'd disappeared behind a curtain or into one of the costume closets. He hadn't ever bothered to spy on them beyond that point, but he was not so naïve that he didn't have a fairly good idea of what had happened next.

But Christine wasn't like those girls. And he didn't want her to be. It was part of what made her so special. She was waiting to give her most precious gift—herself—to the one she would spend forever with.

_And now she'll never get to share that gift with anyone._

The thought saddened him. Not so much for his own sake—Erik had long ago come to accept that love on such an intimate level was something he would never know—but for hers. She was so young. And to be deprived of life and love at such a tender age seemed incredibly unfair.

But he couldn't think about that now. So instead, he focused on her smile and forced himself to return the gesture. Already tonight she'd given him more than he'd ever dreamed she would. If a smile was all he'd ever get, then he would cherish that smile with all his heart until the day he died.

xxxx

Despite being incredibly tired when she went to bed, Christine asked Madame Giry to wake her in time for the Sunday morning mass. Once again, she tried to convince Erik to go, and once again he made up some excuse to stay at home despite a rather harsh glare from Madame Giry that made him feel a bit more guilty than he usually did about missing church. While he found the ballet mistress' frequent attempts to revive his Catholic faith a bit of a nuisance, Christine's genuinely concerned pleas were becoming difficult to ignore.

_Just go. It wouldn't kill you to attend ONE service with her, would it? Even if you don't believe it, just go for her sake. Give her a little peace of mind. She's unselfish enough to be concerned about your soul. Why aren't _you_ unselfish enough to make her happy?_

_ What business does the Devil's Child have inside the house of God? You know what the church does to those with demons, don't you?_

Erik shuddered at the memory. If there had been a day that he had lost his innocence—though he wasn't sure he'd ever had any to begin with—it was the day of the exorcism. The day he'd lost all respect for the one person in his life who, at the time, he'd thought to be a friend. The day whatever little faith he had had been completely shattered. He could still remember the first time he'd ever felt a whip bite into his skin. He had cried out for the priest, for his mother, for God—for anyone who was listening to make it stop—but his plea, it seemed, had fallen on deaf ears. God had shown no mercy then. There was little reason to believe that He would now that Erik had done more than his fair share of sins.

Ultimately, it was this fear rather than the fear of disappointing Christine that won out, and he found himself once again alone at the apartment with several hours to himself. This time, however, he found he was even more agitated than before. After nearly half an hour of restlessly attempting to compose and throwing out nearly everything he wrote, he eventually gave up and decided to simply wait for Christine outside of the cathedral.

It was a fairly long walk to the chapel—a distance that most would have preferred to ride—but all the carriage drivers were currently in church, leaving the roads almost entirely deserted. Erik didn't mind it, though. A year ago, he wouldn't have been able to walk the streets during the day at all. At least in Persia he'd been able to walk about freely.

_One never knows how privileged he is to feel the sunlight on his face until he has been deprived of it._

As he drew near to the church, he began to hear strains of music on the breeze. It was an ancient hymn, a song written by the great Psalmist King David set to a more modern tune. Though he had given up on God a long time ago, the music of the church had been the first music he'd ever been exposed to—the psalms and hymns some of the first songs he'd ever sung—and for that, it still held a special place within his heart. Erik stopped, letting the words wash over him, the old familiar song slipping silently from his lips. [1]

_Against You, You only, have I sinned and done what is evil in Your sight; so You are right in Your verdict__and justified when You judge._

_Surely I was sinful at birth, sinful from the time my mother conceived me._

He smiled bitterly at the last line. It couldn't have been more true. The momentary distraction had made him miss a line or two, but he quickly caught back up.

_Cleanse me with hyssop, and I will be clean;__wash me, and I will be whiter than snow. __  
__Let me hear joy and gladness; let the bones You have crushed rejoice.__  
__Hide Your face from my sins and blot out all my iniquity._

He considered the Psalmist's words for a moment. He made it sound so easy, as if a lifetime

of sins could suddenly be washed away in a single refreshing breath of forgiveness. No acts of punishment or penance required, as if it was given freely rather than earned. But nothing in life had ever been easy for him, and he didn't expect forgiveness to be any different.

But why should he even ask for forgiveness in the first place, he wondered angrily? What sort of loving God would allow His creation to be born into sin? To be born with a face such as his? If anything, it seemed to him that God was the One who needed forgiving.

_You do not delight in sacrifice, or I would bring it;__You do not take pleasure in burnt offerings.__  
__My sacrifice, O God, is a broken spirit;__a broken and contrite heart You, God, will not despise._

Was it possible, he wondered? Was it possible that God did not delight in all the pain that he'd

been through? If so, why did He allow it?

Somewhere amid the chorus of singers, he could hear Christine's voice soaring above the others. He'd heard this song a thousand times as a child, and yet the words had meant nothing to him then. Now, with her voice bringing them to life, they suddenly seemed more real. Sitting down on a bench just across the street, Erik closed his eyes and listened—_really_ listened—to what the words were saying for perhaps the first time in his life.

xxxx

Christine exited the church feeling spiritually refreshed but physically more exhausted than she thought she'd ever been. She'd barely been able to keep her mind on the sermon, having caught herself daydreaming several times—though what she had been thinking about she could not remember. It was as if she had simply lost a few moments of her life, as if her body had been present within the church while her mind was somewhere else entirely, a thick fog obscuring all that was around her until everything dissolved into the haze of nothingness. Needless to say, it was more than a bit unsettling. She considered asking Madame Giry if they might make haste to leave, but the moment she looked up, she felt all of her words dry up, her lips forming a surprised little 'O' when she noticed a familiar masked face standing off to the side of the crowd leaning up against the old apple tree out front.

"Erik? What are you doing here?"

He shrugged. "I felt like going for a walk. Care to join me?"

"Well, I—"

"Christine is very tired, Erik," Madame Giry interrupted, seemingly unsurprised by his sudden appearance. "I think it would be best to allow her to rest for a few hours first."

"No, no! It's fine," Christine assured her, momentarily pushing her exhaustion aside. She turned back to Erik, giving him what she hoped was a convincing smile. "I'd love to go for a walk."

Madame Giry frowned. It was obvious the girl was tired, but the tiny hopeful smile that she saw peeking out from behind the mask was enough to give her pause. The feelings that they both had been trying to deny for so long were finally beginning to resurface, and she was loathe to quell the budding possibility of mutual affection.

"Alright," she sighed. "But come directly home. No dawdling. I expect you to be back within the hour, understood?"

Christine gave her a grateful smile. "Yes, Madame."

"Good." Her eyes flickered to the ones behind the mask. "Erik, make sure she doesn't get too tired. Stop and rest for awhile if she needs to."

He gave a polite nod.

"Well, then, I will see you both at home."

She gave a quick nod of dismissal before turning back toward the church and stepping into a waiting carriage. Peering out the window, she saw Meg and Jeffrey coming down the steps, laughing and talking like there was no one in the world but them and they had forever to discover what that world might hold, the epitome of youthful innocence and love—the way that love was meant to be. Her gaze wandered back to Erik and Christine who were walking arm in arm down the sidewalk toward the street corner. For the moment, they, too, seemed at peace. For the moment, they were happy. It broke her heart to know that their happiness would be short-lived.

xxxx

"So you finished early today, then?" Christine asked. "Your work at the opera house, I mean?"

Erik felt a stab of guilt for having fed her yet another fabricated explanation for his absence at the church. He answered as truthfully as possible, trying to avoid any more lies without giving himself away.

"As it turns out, I didn't have nearly as much to get done as I'm afraid I led you to believe. Everything is in place for the performance now, and if the cast remains as diligent as they have been at the rehearsals thus far, opening night should be a success."

Christine smiled. "Wonderful! Perhaps you'll be able to resume your attendance now that everything at the Opera has been settled."

"Perhaps…" He didn't have the heart to tell her that he'd never set foot inside of a church in his entire life—not even for the exorcism. His mother had been too ashamed to let herself be seen in public with the demon-child.

The sound of Christine's melodic voice brought him out of his dark thoughts.

"How far is it from here to the shore?" she asked suddenly. "Not the docks," she clarified. "I mean a more secluded part of the beach."

Erik looked at her curiously. "About an hour by carriage, I suppose. Why do you ask?"

"I've been thinking about things I'd like to do before…." She glanced down.

"Before you leave?" Erik finished for her.

Christine was unsure of whether to smile or to pity him for his pathetic attempts to sugar-coat the situation. He made it sound so simple, so _normal_—as if she were merely returning to Paris. Had it been anyone else, she might have been offended by such belittling behavior, but knowing Erik she couldn't be entirely sure that he hadn't deluded himself into believing it was true to avoid the inevitable pain that would follow her death. It would hurt less to know that she had left of her own accord and loved him only as a friend than to believe that she had finally come to love him only to have her snatched away by a Higher Power, Whom he would likely blame. She drew a shaky breath.

"Yes, before I…leave…." She chewed her lip nervously, slightly uncomfortable with the idea that she was allowing him to perpetuate such a fantasy when it would ultimately make things more difficult for him in the end. "I'd like to go for a walk on the beach one day, I think." She sighed wistfully. "I haven't been to the sea since I was a little girl—well, except for the journey over here, of course. But that's not really the same thing. I want to walk in the water's edge again, to feel the sand on my feet and the sun on my face and the sea breeze in my hair."

She closed her eyes for a moment, envisioning the house that she'd grown up in. It was a homely little cottage with brown wooden shingles and blue colored shutters and a rickety old porch that wound all the way around. It was a single floor with a single bedroom and a small living area that could barely hold the few worldly possessions that they owned. But it was home. The cramped little attic that was added later on was more of a nursery than it ever was a storage room. She and Raoul had spent countless hours up there, turning chairs into thrones and blankets into robes of gold as they imagined themselves in various stories as the righteous king and queen who had to fight off the evil dragon or ogre or whatever other menace her father might decide to be, punctuating the more dramatic moments of the story with a few bars on the violin. Even now she could almost hear the soft strains of a Swedish lullaby on the breeze….

"Christine?…Christine?"

She inhaled sharply at the sound of her name, jumping a little as she came out of her daydream. When she opened her eyes, she noticed that Erik was looking down at her with a mixture of confusion and concern. She blushed.

"I'm sorry," she apologized. "It seems that I am very easily distracted today." She frowned. "What were you saying?"

"I said that I think it's a bit cold for a walk by the sea."

Her countenance fell.

"But, of course, it's your decision," he amended. "I suppose we could go sometime this week. Tomorrow, perhaps?"

He was relieved to see the smile return. He'd do anything to keep her smiling like that.

"Tomorrow would be wonderful."

But then the frown came back.

"What is it?" he asked.

Christine fidgeted with her dress. "I…Well, there's something I've been meaning to ask you, but…but I'm afraid it might offend you."

Erik stiffened. _I knew it was too good to last. She's going to ask something about your face…or that kiss the other night…or Persia. _He sighed. _Well, you knew you couldn't avoid it forever. Might as well get this over with._ "Go on."

She hesitated, opening her mouth as if to say something before abruptly changing her mind. There were many answers she needed, but now wasn't the time to ask about the injections. Instead, she tried a safer subject—one that he actually knew she was aware of. She took a deep breath. "Joseph Buquet…why did you kill him?" She rushed on. "I don't mean to bring up the past, I'm just…trying to understand. Piangi makes sense. I don't like that you did it, but I understand your motives. Buquet never made sense to me…." She glanced up. "Please don't be angry."

Erik considered her words. Although the topic was not what he'd been expecting, it was no easier for him to answer. But studying her eyes, he was surprised to find that they held no anger or accusation—only honest curiosity. He took a deep breath.

"Joseph Buquet was a drunken lech and a poor excuse for a stagehand. More than once, I caught him ogling Little Giry and yourself. That in and of itself should be a crime worthy of death."

"But didn't you…" Christine flushed with embarrassment. "I-I mean the mirror…." She looked down.

"NO!" Erik felt the heat rise to his cheeks. "I-I mean…It did…Well, I could _see_ you, but I never watched you when you were…indecent." He purposely focused his gaze on the sidewalk.

"Oh. Well, um…thank you."

Erik wasn't quite certain how to respond, so he merely nodded and continued. "At any rate, that was _not_ the reason that I killed him—though it would have been a more honorable motive, I suppose."

Christine cocked her head in confusion. "Why, then?"

"He knew too much." He paused and turned to look at her so that she would know he spoke the truth. "I never set out to kill him that day. When I interrupted the performance, he saw me and tried to follow. My letters to the managers were intentionally threatening in the hope that threats alone would be enough to frighten away any who would dare seek out the Opera Ghost…. Unfortunately, Buquet had too much bravado for his own good—which I suspect was brought about by an unhealthy amount of liquor—and my warnings went unheeded. I did try to escape, but when he continued to follow me, I knew that if he learned my secrets, it would only be a matter of time before the managers found out and sent all the genedarmes of Paris storming down into my hideaway." He glanced back down. "Sometimes one must die in order for another to live. That is not to say that his life was worth any less than mine—in fact, I'd wager it would be rather difficult to find _anyone_ whose life is worth less than my own—but self-preservation, however basic an instinct, is present in us all. It's a rather selfish and ignoble cause, I know—but it is the truth."

Christine nodded slowly. "I suppose that makes sense." She faltered. "Do…do you regret it?"

Erik thought for a moment, taking care in how he worded his response. She didn't know about the gypsy circus master or the Persians, but in a way he felt that the question was aimed at more than just Buquet. Perhaps he could use this as an opportunity to apologize for his other misdeeds without actually giving himself away. But was he truly sorry for all that he had done? Buquet and Piangi had merely been pawns in part of a larger plan, neither truly guilty of wronging him in any way. Persia had been a living nightmare; there was no question of his remorse in that matter. But the gypsy….

"I have never taken pleasure in killing an innocent man," he said.

The emphasis, of course, being on the word 'innocent,' which the gypsy circus master was not.

She dared another question. It was dangerous territory, but she needed to know. "What about Raoul?"

While it was true that he hadn't actually gone through with the plan to kill the vicomte, he very nearly had. And it had certainly seemed to Christine at the time that he would have enjoyed nothing more than to squeeze the life out of her childhood friend.

Surprisingly, Erik seemed almost amused by the question. "In my defense, he _did _try to kill me, too. Twice if I'm not mistaken. The second time relatively unprovoked. Your little vicomte is not quite so innocent as you would like to imagine." He smiled a little. "Not that I can blame him. He knew as well as I do that you are worth dying for."

Their eyes met for a moment, but her expression was unreadable, and so he let the conversation drop.

As they turned another corner, they fell into a comfortable silence, each lost in their own thoughts as they passed the darkened windows of bakeries and tailors' shops and book stores. Christine took the opportunity to observe her companion, taking in every detail from the creamy white porcelain of the mask to his perfectly starched dark suit. Despite the many years that they had known one another from a distance, she had never had the chance to study him up close for an extended period of time. She noticed details now that she hadn't really paid attention to before—the chiseled curve of his jaw, the tiny flecks of gold suspended in his forest-green eyes, the little ghost of a smile on his lips that seemed happily out of place. He might have been a handsome man, she thought, if not for what lay beneath the mask. She tried to envision what he would look like with two perfectly symmetrical cheeks and a full head of his naturally honey-blonde colored hair and smiled at the thought. Yes, he would have been a handsome man, indeed…but his face was part of who he was. It was the cause of all his suffering, the reason he was warped in mind and soul, the reason he'd been forced to live among the shadows for the larger portion of his life, and ultimately the reason he felt justified in retaliating against a world that had disowned him and denied him his basic rights.

Could she forgive him of all he'd done now that she had a better understanding of his motives? Could she love him as she wanted to despite his flaws inside and out? The thought troubled her. Although she had come to care for him deeply, his past deeds still haunted her, and his face remained an obstacle she wasn't sure that she had the strength to breach. He had not seen fit to show her his naked cheek since her arrival, and while she understood his reasoning, it hurt to know that he did not trust her enough to fully be himself within her presence. Nevertheless, it had been more than a year now since she had seen his face, and while she thought that she could now gaze on it with love, it was possible that time had dulled her memory of the horror beneath the mask. If she fainted or screamed or ran away, it would surely damage his self-image more than it already was, but if she could manage not to show any fear or disgust, to show him that he could be loved as any other man, then she might begin to heal the wounds that she and others had inflicted. It was a risky thing to do, but it would eventually be necessary if they were to have any sort of serious relationship. She wondered if he'd ever give her the chance.

Somehow in the midst of her musings, Christine noticed a gentle pressure on her waist, an enveloping warmth that she had not felt before. Glancing down, she realized that Erik had unconsciously wrapped his arm around her waist. She wondered if he could feel the little sparks of lightning that ignited where they touched. It was a strange, tingling sensation that seemed to radiate out from the center of her body to the tips of her fingers and toes. But it wasn't the happy sort of tingling that she'd been expecting. She frowned suddenly. Something didn't feel right.

_It's probably just the lack of sleep catching up with me, _she reasoned.

Not wishing to alarm Erik, she decided that it would be best not to mention anything. But she couldn't quite shake the feeling of uneasiness that had suddenly settled itself around her heart.

Before she could worry any more, however, her troubled thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the startled chirp of a little brown bird at their feet. In its haste to escape, it flew straight into the glass of a nearby flower shop window, landing on the pavement with a resounding smack where it lay unmoving, stunned. Forgetting her fatigue, Christine immediately slipped out of Erik's arm and knelt beneath the window full of roses, gently scooping up the battered bird and cradling it in her hands. She could tell that it was breathing, but it remained still, as if in a trance.

"Poor little thing," she crooned, stroking its feathered head. She looked up at Erik. "Will it be alright?"

He stooped to examine the bird, noting the odd angle of its wing. He unfolded it slowly, releasing his hold when it started to squirm in pain. He frowned. "Its wing is broken. It won't live long like this."

"Can't we do something? We can't just leave it here!"

"Christine…"

He started to protest, but the look in her eyes made him stop. It was the same look that she'd given him the first time she'd seen him without the mask, huddled in the corner on the floor with a hand covering his face.

_Is that how she sees me? A pitiful creature in need of rescue? _

But the way she was caressing and cooing over the little bird made him wonder whether being the recipient of her pity might not be such a bad thing after all. Was pity truly a form of love? Was it enough?

He sighed, removing his outer coat and rolling it into a sort of makeshift nest. "Here, carry it in this until we can get home. We'll find a box or something for it later until we can get a cage."

He grimaced. After his years with the gypsy circus, he found the idea of forcing anything to live inside a cage disagreeable—but the idea of chasing an injured bird around the apartment was even more so. Finding bird droppings on the furniture and expensive Persian rugs would be a rather unpleasant surprise that he didn't want to deal with.

Christine accepted the jacket from him, laying the bird gently in the center and wrapping one of the sleeves partially over it to shelter it from the cold and hopefully keep it from being frightened.

Erik stood, offering a hand to Christine, who accepted it gratefully with her free hand, cradling the makeshift nest in her other arm. She noticed his eyes flicker briefly over to the window. He gave a short laugh and shook his head.

"What is it?" she asked.

"I just find it rather ironic that the bird would fly into this _particular _window. It reminds me of a legend I once heard in Persia." He hesitated. "Did I ever tell you the story of how the red rose came to be?"

She shook her head. "I don't think so."

"According to the legend, there once was a lonely nightingale who wanted nothing more than to find love. One day he came upon a white rose—a rose so beautiful and pure that he felt sure that she would never return his affections—and at first, she didn't, for she was a flower and he was bird, two species so very different that a union seemed impossible. But at length, she found beauty in his song and from their love was born the very first red rose the world had ever seen."

He glanced over at her briefly, anxious to see her reaction. He knew the parallels of the story with his own life and its insinuations would not be lost on her. He held his breath as their eyes suddenly met.

But she quickly looked away, biting her lower lip. She knew what he was waiting for but she didn't want to give him false hope for a future that she knew would not be possible in her condition. Instead, she decided to answer with a story of her own. [2]

"It sounds a lot like one of the stories that my father used to tell me as a child." She smiled, remembering the sound of her father's voice, the musty smell of the attic, the creak of the dusty old floorboards beneath her feet. "Once there lived a young man who was desperately in love. The woman that he sought, however, was of a higher class and far beyond the reach of most with his social standing, but she promised him a dance if he brought her the finest red rose in all the kingdom. The young man left, discouraged, because he knew that there was only one red rose tree in the land, and the frost had killed the buds before they had the chance to bloom.

"But a little nightingale that lived outside his window heard his cries of despair and decided she would help him out, for she had watched him from a distance for many nights and hated to see him so unhappy. She searched far and wide, flying from tree to tree throughout the kingdom, but there were no red roses to be found. At last, she pleaded with the red rose tree to share his secret that she might create a red rose of her own. But the tree refused to tell her, for he knew that red roses can only be born of the pure, unselfish love of a willing sacrifice—a price he did not wish for her to pay. But the nightingale was persistent, and at long last, he gave in."

She paused. The pain she saw reflected in his eyes was almost enough to make her cry. He might not have heard the story before, but by now he knew the ending would not quite so happy as the story that he'd told. He didn't want to hear any more, but Christine knew that now that she had started the story, she had to finish it. Taking a deep breath, she continued.

"Singing one last song of love, she pressed her heart against the sharpest thorn on the highest branch of the tree, burying the spike deep within her chest. She sang until she could sing no more, until the first pink rays of dawn broke across the sky and the stars began to fade. But when the rose tree shouted excitedly to tell her of their great triumph, the nightingale was silent, a magnificent blood-red rose opening its petals to the sun a living testimony of her undying love.

"When the young man saw the rose the next day, he leapt for joy, and plucking it carefully from the branches, took it to the woman that he loved. But the woman was not satisfied and refused his gift, thinking it inferior to the jewels and other such expensive gifts that the noblemen could give her. Angry and upset, the young man cast the rose aside, allowing it to be trampled in the streets where it lay in the cold rain as the skies wept for the bird who gave her life and the man who did not even know that he was already loved."

She was quiet for a moment, allowing the story to speak for itself, hoping that he would understand what she was too afraid to say. The little sparrow, who had settled contentedly within her arms, seemed to be waiting, too, his beady black eyes staring expectantly up at the two humans with more curiosity than fear. But Erik did not respond, and Christine was left wondering whether she had said too much or not enough.

"It's a shame, really," she said quietly. "He could have done so many things with that flower that would have still made her sacrifice worthwhile—pressed it to preserve the memory of its beauty, given it away to someone else, or planted it to grow a new rose tree so her love could live on forever and its beauty could be shared with all the world. Instead, he chose to give up."

But Erik seemed not to have heard her. He was still trying to overcome the shockwave of comprehension that was slowly sinking into his mind. _She said that the man never realized that he was ALREADY loved. He was unworthy—ungrateful—and yet the nightingale still sang her last song—gave her last breath and the last beat of her heart—for him. Does that mean…?_

He couldn't bring himself to finish the question even within the quiet confines of his own mind. If he had misinterpreted the story, he would make himself look like an utter fool…and yet he desperately needed to know the answer.

They were nearing the apartment now, almost at the bottom of the stairs. The moment that they stepped inside, their privacy would be almost nonexistent. As they reached the steps, she started to ascend, but he stopped her, taking her gently by the arm and pulling her aside. He held her at arm's length so he could look into her eyes, one black-gloved hand resting softly on each shoulder.

"Christine…Are you…I…I don't understand…Do you…Could you ever…" He took a deep breath. "Christine, you know that I love you. Not a single day has passed that I have not thought of you from the moment that you left. I gave up on the hope of my love being returned long ago, but…but now I dare to hope once again." He licked his lips hesitantly. "If I have misinterpreted your feelings—if you still feel now as you did then—I understand and respect your decision." He drew another shaky breath. "But if you _do_ love me, then I beg of you to speak it plainly. Just let me hear it once from your lips and I will never ask anything of you again—not marriage, not companionship, not even a simple kiss. Just to hear you speak the words would be enough." He paused. "But if you cannot say them truthfully—if you know that you never will—please tell me that I may not raise my hopes on the unfounded dreams of a broken heart."

Christine had gone deathly pale. "Erik, I…I…"

She wanted to continue, but she suddenly found that her mouth would not cooperate. She felt the tingling again, stronger this time, as if an electric pulse was passing through her body. And suddenly, her eyes grew wide with fear.

The bird had started flailing again, chirping and squirming in her arms, the animal's odd behavior immediately alerting Erik that something was wrong. Taking the coat from her trembling hands, he frowned.

"Christine?"

Though her lips were moving, she could not form the words.

Erik grabbed her arm. "Christine, are you alright? Speak to me!"

A sudden burst of pain shot through her brain like a million fireworks all going off at once followed by a bloodcurdling scream that echoed down the alleys. She could hear the blood rushing in her ears, feel the surge of lighting in her veins. When she opened her eyes, there was a blinding white light.

Erik watched in horror as she collapsed in the street, her body jerking in strange, uncontrollable motions that bent her arms and legs in all sorts of unnatural angles. Immediately, he dropped to his knees, the bird set aside and forgotten as he tried to hold her down.

"ANTOINETTE!"

But the ballet mistress was already at the top of the stairs, making her way down as quickly as she could and followed closely by a very frightened looking Meg. By the time they reached the last step, Christine's eyes had rolled back, and Erik was in a panic.

"Christine?! Christine can you hear me?! Oh, God! GOD, _PLEASE_!" He didn't know what he was praying for or if God was even listening, but the words spilled out anyway.

Suddenly, she went limp.

Gathering up her seemingly lifeless body, he cradled her in his arms, rocking her back and forth as he buried his face in the fabric of her dress, dark droplets of grief staining the blue velvet black.

"Oh, Christine," he wept, "Christine, don't leave me. Don't leave me."

[1] The bits and pieces of the song/psalm used in this chapter come from Psalm 51. King David wrote the psalm to ask God for forgiveness after having an adulterous affair with Bathsheba and sending her husband out in the front lines of the army with the intent that he would be killed.

[2] The story that Christine tells is my retelling of Oscar Wilde's "The Nightingale and the Rose." Many believe the story to be symbolic of Christ's love for the world. In this case, while the religious symbolism still holds true, the story is also intended to be somewhat representative of Christine and Erik's love.


	12. Morphine

**Chapter Eleven: Morphine**

A tiny bead of liquid trembled on the end of the needle like a minute crystal ball balanced perfectly on the tip of a pin. But another second later and it was on the floor, shattering like glass.

The pinkish white skin was ready and waiting, aching for another dose of sweet relief. But his hand was shaking too badly for the needle to locate the vein. Already, he'd stabbed himself several times in the wrong place because he couldn't manage to keep his hand steady. Hissing another curse as he missed his target yet again, he quickly wiped away the bead of red that had started to form on the inside of his arm and prepared to try again. He'd gradually upped the dosage over the past week, but today the syringe was filled with several milliliters more than usual. It was taking a big risk, he knew, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He needed morphine, and he needed it _now_.

Finally, he found the vein. The moment he pressed his thumb against the plunger, he could feel the drug begin to work its magic. Closing his eyes, he breathed a heavy sigh of relief. It wouldn't be long now.

He jumped at the sound of the door banging open, wincing when the needle buried deep into the muscle of his arm. He jerked it out rather unceremoniously before turning to face the intruder. He wasn't wearing the mask, but it didn't matter. There was only one person with the gall to walk in on his room unannounced.

"I thought I told you never to come in here," he growled.

Madame Giry didn't flinch. "How long did you think that you could keep it from me, Erik?"

"It's none of your business," he snapped. "I am not obligated to inform you of everything that I do, nor do I require your approval of my actions. Now kindly leave my quarters or I shall have to remove you from them."

"How can you help Christine when you cannot even help yourself?" she countered. "Erik, you are still a wanted criminal in France! If you get into trouble with the law here, then—"

"I don't care! There is nothing they could possibly do to me that would be worse torture than what I am already enduring—watching her waste away day by day and being powerless to stop it!" He sighed. "Death would be a welcome sentence now." His features softened when he noticed her alarmed expression. "I'm not trying to kill myself, Antoinette. I just need some relief. I went for a year without music, and when Christine is gone, the music will die once again. Please do not deprive me of my only alternative release."

The ballet mistress sighed. "You are a grown man, Erik. It is _your _life, and you must make your own decisions about how you want to live it. I cannot stop you. But I _can_ tell you that what you are doing now is hurting Christine far worse than anything else that is ailing her."

Erik looked up, alarmed. "She knows?"

"She knows enough."

"Why did you tell her?!"

"I didn't have to. She figured it out on her own."

He sighed. "How long have you known?"

"I've had my suspicions for awhile, but as you said, it was none of my business, and I did not want to accuse you of something I wasn't absolutely certain of."

"So how did you find out?"

"Christine mentioned that several times when she took your arm, you seemed to flinch. At first, she thought it might have just been out of nervousness, but when it happened even after you seemed comfortable within her presence, she began to worry. I knew then that my suspicions were correct, and when she pressed me for answers, I did not deny her the information she desired."

Erik sighed again, taking in the information that he'd just been given. "Did you come here for a reason, or was your only purpose to find the condemning evidence you sought?"

"Christine is awake now." The older woman looked him in the eyes. "She is asking for you."

xxxx

Erik nervously stepped into the room, closing the door quietly behind him. Christine was unusually pale, the dark circles beneath her eyes standing out starkly against her pallid skin. She looked more tired than he had ever seen her before—too tired to move, too tired to speak—but she gave a weak smile as he approached the foot of the bed. Wordlessly, he knelt by her side and took one of her hands between his, pressing a kiss to her knuckles and allowing the tears to drip silently through her fingers. He had the mask on again, but even through the cold porcelain, he could feel the warmth radiating from her skin against his cheek, reassuring him that she was still alive.

"I thought I lost you," he whispered, his lips brushing her skin with every word. He took a moment to steady his breathing before looking up, but he didn't let go of her hand. "When you stopped moving, I thought…"

"I'm s-sorry that I frightened you," she stuttered. Each word was an effort to get out, but she forced herself to speak. "I felt it coming…but I…I didn't want to worry you. I thought I could m-make it home." She was quiet for a moment, as if summoning the strength to say more. "Where is the bird?"

"In the other room. Antoinette found a box for him and put a towel over it to keep him calm. He's resting now." Remembering its injury, he added, "I'll fix a splint for its wing later." In all honesty, he'd completely forgotten about the little sparrow.

"Hmmm," she hummed tiredly, "that's good."

He wanted to ask her if she remembered the conversation they'd been having right before she fell ill, but she'd been so out of sorts at the time, he doubted she could recall much, and her eyelids were already starting to droop. And so, for the time being, he laid the question aside, satisfied with the simple knowledge that she was still breathing. He started to get up.

"I'll leave you to your rest. We'll talk more when you're feeling better."

"Wait." Her grip on his hand tightened as he began to pull away. "Don't go."

_Did she just ask me to stay here as she sleeps? _He colored at the suggestion. "Christine, I don't think…"

"Will you sing for me? I miss hearing your voice."

Hesitantly, he took a seat on the edge of the bed. "What would you like for me to sing?"

"It doesn't matter…." She was already drifting off, eyelids framed by dark lashes fluttering closed. "Just something to help me sleep."

Erik thought for a moment. Though he had begun composing again, he had not truly sung since the day he left the catacombs of the Paris Opera House, his brokenhearted melody intertwining with the echoed strains of a lovers' duet and the angry cries of a frenzied mob. His voice was likely out of shape, and he knew before he even began that he would be displeased with how he sounded. In fact, he was so emotionally drained, he wasn't even sure if he _could_ sing at the moment. But Christine had asked him to, and for her sake, he would try. After another brief moment of hesitation, he opened his mouth and sang the first words that came to his mind. [1]

_Flies with a broken wing, she's ever so graceful, so like an angel,  
but I see, tears flow quietly._

_The struggle she's seen this spring, when nothing comes dancing,  
paying a handsome fee, and still she smiles at me._

Outwardly, she had yet to express any fear of her predicament within his presence, but inside, he could tell that she was crying. And yet, despite the dark clouds hanging just above her head—despite the pain and the exhaustion and the knowledge of her imminent demise—she continued to smile through it all.__

And I can't take it, no I can't help but wonder...

Why do we sacrifice the beautiful ones?  
How do you break a heart of gold?  
Why do we sacrifice our beautiful souls?  
Heroes of tales unsung, untold.

The story of the Opera Ghost would forever be remembered as the tale of a girl kidnapped by a monster and rescued by her handsome suitor, but Christine was the true hero of the story. She had saved the vicomte from an untimely death and saved the monster from himself. With a single kiss she had vanquished the demon, breaking down all of his protective walls until his soul lay bare before her, as damaged and deformed as his naked cheek. With that kiss, she had seen him for what he was—seen him as a _man_—and in so doing proved that she was as beautiful within as she was without.__

Sweet as an angel sings, she gives though she has none left but the last one, free, unhesitatingly.

She had very little time left on this earth. She knew that her days were numbered, and still she chose to spend her last days of life with _him_. She could have spent them anywhere, but instead she spent them here in a cramped apartment in a foreign country with a man who didn't deserve to lick the dust at her feet—much less dance with her or sing her to sleep.__

And I am humbled, I am a broken mirror

Staring at their clasped hands, he couldn't help but compare the two. Hers were so delicate—so perfect—while his were as scarred as the rest of him. It wasn't noticeable unless one saw them up close, but in the soft blue glow filtering through the bedroom curtains, he could just make out the faint white lines where the sharp edges of the mirror had sliced his hands as a child, the floor covered in a mess of blood and glass. Like the mirror, his heart had been shattered one too many times.

_And I can't help but wonder..._

Why do we sacrifice the beautiful ones?  
How do you break a heart of gold?  
Why do we sacrifice our beautiful souls?  
Heroes of tales unsung, untold.

He had hoped that Christine would be the one to piece him back together, but somehow in his attempt to win her over, he had made the fatal mistake of allowing jealousy to cloud his judgment, and Christine had ended up paying the price, becoming the unwilling victim of a love triangle that all but ended her career and her social standing. In his selfishness, he had been willing to sacrifice her happiness for his own. Now he would have given anything just to keep her alive.__

Why do we sacrifice the beautiful ones?  
Why when they walk with love alone?  
Why do we sacrifice our beautiful souls?  
Just trying to find their way home….

Confident that Christine was now asleep, he gently disentangled their interlaced fingers and quietly slipped out the door.

xxxx

It was several days before Christine had recovered enough to get out of bed for more than a few minutes. During that time, Erik had done his best to take care of all her basic needs, bringing her food when she required it and helping her walk over to the restroom when necessary—though the latter was a bit embarrassing for both of them. When she was awake, he would sing for her or tell her stories that he'd learned abroad, and she'd laugh and smile and he could almost pretend that she was well again. But inevitably she would become tired again, and he'd have to excuse himself to allow her to rest. More than once when she complained of an excruciating headache he'd considered offering her a shot of morphine, but he knew it would be self-incriminating, so he bit his tongue and resigned himself to giving her a milder painkiller which, despite her appreciative smile, he knew did little to alleviate the discomfort.

Meanwhile, he had managed to obtain a cage for the little bird—which Christine had promptly named Olivier for his olive-brown feathers—and attach a splint to his wing. On Christine's insistence, he had placed the cage on the bedside table in her room so that she could watch him when she was awake and slip him breadcrumbs from her meals. To the former Phantom's great amusement, the bird had quickly become habituated to his new companion and now sat expectantly on his little perch with his beak open whenever Erik brought in a tray of food, anxiously chirping until Christine slipped him a scrap.

But the unanswered question remained forever in the back of his mind, and although he attempted several times to bring it up in conversation, the fear of rejection always kept him from speaking up. And so, he continued to suffer in silence, the little flame of hope that had been lit within his heart slowly suffocating until it was extinguished.

xxxx

On the morning of the fourth day after the incident, Erik was preparing another dose of morphine when he heard a knock at the door. He sighed, lowering the needle that had been poised above the crook of his arm.

"Not now, Antoinette! I'm busy!"

Though the older woman had yet to say another word on the matter, he knew she disapproved of his use of the drug, and he preferred to keep it out of her sight, for while he did not always show it, he respected her opinion greatly. And he didn't want to see the disappointment in her eyes.

_Strange, _he mused. _She's normally gone by now. I wonder why they haven't left…._

Frowning, he went back to the task at hand. The pale skin on the inside of his arm was as scarred as the rest of him, some scars were old and white, others still fresh and pink in the process of healing. It was the same on both arms, as he switched back and forth between the two so that neither arm was perpetually sore. Currently, it was the right arm that was exposed, the thin white fabric of his sleeve rolled back to just a few inches above the elbow. He had yet to put on his coat, which lay folded neatly on the dresser beneath the mask and wig.

He heard the door creak open. Angrily, he turned to face her.

"Antoinette, I thought I made it clear that—"

He froze. The woman standing in the doorway was not Antoinette. And he wasn't wearing the mask.

Christine's hand flew to her mouth, eyes widening in surprise at having caught him unprepared, whatever reason she had for coming to his room suddenly forgotten.

Instinctively, he scrambled to cover his face, hissing and backing away like a demon of the night exposed to the burning sun. The syringe fell to the floor, temporarily forgotten as he turned away in shame, breathing heavily as he tried to calm his racing heart. When at last he spoke, his voice was shaky, strained with the humiliation of having been seen without the protective barrier of porcelain on his face.

"Christine," he swallowed thickly, "would you please hand me my mask?"

In all honesty, he was surprised that she hadn't fled the room. She had seen the horror of his face before, of course, but he hadn't intended for her to see him that way again. Over the past few weeks, they had begun to rebuild the trust and friendship that they'd had before—back when he had been the Angel of Music and she had been a naïve little girl—and yet, there seemed to have been something more, something deeper running just beneath the surface, and for a few brief moments, he'd dared to hope that it was love. But now the façade had come down, and he felt those dreams shatter. Now she would be reminded of what he really was, and once again, he would be reduced to the dog who begged at her feet for even the tiniest scrap of affection. If it was possible to feel a heart break, the stabbing pain that gripped his chest would have been more than enough evidence for the condition of his, his free hand clutching at the fabric of his shirt as if he had been shot. He half expected to see a splotch of scarlet blossoming from the wound.

Christine carefully lifted the mask from its place on the dresser, her eyes flitting hesitantly from the syringe on the floor to the trembling hand that slipped from his heart, now outstretched expectantly at his side. She took a single step forward before she stopped, hugging the piece of porcelain close to her chest. She took a deep breath.

"No."

He slowly turned around, one hand still shielding his face from her eyes. "What?"

"I said no. I will not give you back your mask until you make me a promise."

He eyed her suspiciously. "What sort of promise?"

She dared another step toward him only to have him jerk back when she reached for the arm that was covering his face. The look of hurt and betrayal in his eyes was almost unbearable. Slowly, she let her hand fall.

"You don't have to show me your face," she reassured him. She reached for him again, barely touching the skin of his upper arm. "I just want you to promise me," she ran her fingers over the inside of his elbow, eliciting another sharp hiss of pain, "that you won't do this anymore."

She was close enough now that he could have snatched the mask out of her hand. He knew she was no match for his strength, but she was holding it so protectively—so possessively—that if he attempted to reach for it, he'd inevitably have to touch her in an inappropriate manner. The neckline of her dress was fairly low, and if he made the wrong move, things would quickly become incredibly awkward. She was banking on the premise that he wouldn't risk it…and of course, he grudgingly admitted, she was right. He could have grabbed her by the arms and threatened her, but he didn't want to do that…and even if he _had_ wanted to, he wasn't willing to remove his hand from his face. She had caught him at his most vulnerable, and there was little he could do.

"Erik, you're _killing_ yourself!"

"I'm not—"

"Maybe not all at once, but sooner or later it _will_ catch up with you. You'll build up a tolerance. You'll keep taking more, and then…" She shook her head. "Erik, _please_…don't do this to yourself."

Erik was becoming mildly irritated. "Christine, you don't understand. If you knew what kind of suffering I—"

"Do not speak to me as though I am still a child, Erik!" There was a fire in her tear-filled eyes. "Do not speak to me as if I do not understand suffering—as if I've never considered beating death at its own game." She sniffed, a few silver tears slipping past her dark lashes. "I am not the same little girl you once knew. I would appreciate it if you didn't treat me as such."

Erik stood dumbfounded. "You…you contemplated…suicide?"

Christine looked down. "Yes." She was quiet for a moment. "When I found out that my illness would be…terminal…and that it was going to be a very slow and painful process…I thought it might be easier to…to end things on my own before they got any worse."

His voice was barely a hoarse whisper. "How?"

She refused to meet his gaze. "I was going to jump…from the top of the Paris Opera House."

Erik closed his eyes, a sudden nauseating vision of Christine splayed out on the streets of Paris in a pool of blood filling his mind. _Just like Luciana…._ He swallowed back the bile that was rising in his throat.

"What stopped you?"

She looked up, a mysterious smile on her rosy lips. "You. You stopped me."

"Me? I…I don't understand…."

"Neither do I. But somehow you did. Somehow I thought I heard your voice, and it reminded me that I meant something to someone…that I still had a reason to live for however long God had given me." Her smile widened. "Perhaps I really do have a guardian angel."

"The Angel of Music was a lie, Christine—a beautiful lie, but a lie nonetheless. How do you know that your God is not a lie as well?"

"God doesn't always answer prayers the way we want or expect Him to. But He does answer them. When I asked for an angel, I wanted a teacher, a friend, a father…. Is that not what you were to me?"

He sighed. "I am no angel, Christine."

"No. No, you are not. In fact, you are probably the farthest thing from what I was expecting." She looked directly in his eyes. "You are more human, more flawed, more stubborn than any angel ever could be. You are more complicated than what I wanted—more troublesome than what I prayed for…" She closed her eyes, allowing a fresh batch of tears to fall. "And you are more amazing than anything I could have ever hoped for."

Erik was struggling with his own emotions now, overwhelmed by what he could not believe that he was hearing.

"You call yourself a demon, but I do not believe it."

Taking his left hand, she held it up against his chest, against his wildly beating heart.

"A demon has no heartbeat. A demon is not capable of love. But you are—more so than any man that I have ever met. When I was a lonely child, you made me feel wanted and adored, and when I was a young woman, you made me feel more beautiful—more special—than any other woman in the world. You once loved me with a jealous love, and yet you loved me enough to let me go—to sacrifice your own happiness for mine. A love like that is the stuff of fairytales and operas. It is the sort of love that every girl dreams about because it rarely happens in real life…. But for me it did, and foolishly, I let it slip through my fingers without a second thought. I didn't understand your actions at the time…and in some ways I still don't…but I forgive you of them…and I hope that you are able to forgive me."

"Oh, Christine," he choked, "if only it were that simple. The crimes I committed as the Opera Ghost were only a small fraction of the evils I have done. The blood of thousands of innocent lives is on my hands, Christine." He turned away so that she would not see his wretched grief, the hand covering his face at last falling to his side. He closed his eyes. "I can still hear them screaming…."

She laid a hand on his shoulder, taking care to approach from the left so the action would not be mistaken as a threat. "What happened?"

"Persia." He clenched his jaw. "I have told you of my time with the gypsies and of my time abroad. But I have not told you everything." He sighed. "The first time I met Antoinette, I was with the gypsies. Amid a sea of faces, only she did not laugh or draw back in fear. My master was cruel and abused me every chance he got. He was the first man I ever killed, but far from being the last."

"But if you killed him in self-defense, then—"

"Please let me finish, Christine. There is still much you do not know. I'd prefer you reserve judgment until you have heard it all."

Christine chewed her lip thoughtfully. "So Madame Giry helped you escape?"

"Yes. She took me to the basement of the old Opera House where I hid amid the discarded costumes and old sets for several years until the war began. They had to leave the Opera, then, and so I left as well. We lost contact for several years during which Antoinette was married and widowed and I wandered from town to town. You already know of Giovanni and Luciana."

He winced briefly at the names but hurriedly continued.

"After my time with them in Italy, I once again took up with the travelling circus, and that is how I eventually came to meet Nadir, the Persian chief of police who was sent to retrieve me for the Shah—their king of sorts. He had heard of my magic acts and singing ability and wished for me to perform for the royal court, and at first, that's all it was—an entertainment position with better pay than I'd ever had before. But then…then he learned of my _other_ abilities—the ability to design architecture…and the ability to kill." He looked down. "Before, I had only ever killed in self-defense, but the Shah and the Khanum—the Queen, more or less—had a sadistic sense of humor, and so they asked me to design a torture chamber that they might have new, amusing ways to watch the accused die. Many who entered the chamber were guilty of crimes deserving death…but there were also many who were not. I should have turned down the proposition and left town while I still could, but I knew that if they found me, _I _would be the one amusing them with my death, and so I took the coward's way out, saving my own neck at the price of many others." He paused, taking a deep breath. "Of course, it was only a matter of time before they grew tired of my tricks, and once again, I was forced to flee. Nadir helped me get away, but in doing so, he put his own life at great risk. I still don't know if he survived…or why he thought I was worth saving when he knew all that I had done. He was a far braver man than I ever was."

Christine thought for a moment, considering his words. The revelation that he had killed others—though not entirely surprising—was a bit upsetting. However, when she tried to put herself in his predicament, she didn't honestly know if she would have been brave enough to do the right thing, either. And as selfish as his choices may have been, she was thankful that he was still alive. She hesitated.

"There is a _reason_ your heart is still beating, Erik. _You_ may not believe that God has a purpose for your life, but _I _do."

He laughed harshly. "What _purpose_ did your God have in giving me this devil's face? What _purpose_ did He have in all of my suffering?" His voice dropped to barely a whisper. "What purpose does He have in yours?"

She was quiet for a moment before responding. "Perhaps we are each others' purpose."

Slowly, he turned back to face her, his right hand once again covering the deformity. "Christine…"

Laying the mask at the foot of the bed, she quietly approached him, reaching out her hand and resting it on top of his. She did not attempt to expose his face but merely ran her thumb encouragingly over the back of his hand.

Through the cracks between his fingers, he could see her dark eyes, curious and questioning. She was waiting for permission. Gradually, he conceded, his hand shaking with uncertainty as he uncovered his face just enough for her to slip her own hand against his cheek.

Something warm and wet trickled down the length of her palm as he closed his eyes. She took a step closer, gently rubbing her thumb against the marred skin of his cheek.

"This face is what brought you to me. I do not pretend to know the mind of God, nor do I think myself important enough to be worth all of the terrible things that you endured…but for whatever reason you were born with this face, I am thankful for it because it led us to one another."

Another tear slipped through her fingers. Beneath her hand, she could feel the deformed flesh contorting further as he desperately tried to contain his emotions. She reached up to cup his other cheek with her right hand, looking up into his emerald eyes with more affection than he'd ever seen.

"And if this illness is what brought us back together, then I am thankful for it as well."

He started to look away, but she gently turned his head back toward her, forcing him to face her.

"Erik. Erik, look at me. I would rather die tomorrow than live a thousand years without ever having seen you again." [2]

She slowly lowered her hands from his cheeks until they rested just above his heart. Resting her head against his chest, she wrapped her arms around his waist and began softly singing.

_If I never knew you_

_If I never felt this love_

_I would have no inkling of_

_How precious life can be_

Erik hesitantly returned the embrace, adding his own lyrics to the song.

_If I never held you_

_I would never have a clue_

_How at last I'd find in you_

_The missing part of me_

_In this world so full of fear_

_Full of rage and lies_

_I can see the truth so clear_

_In your eyes_

_So dry your eyes_

Tilting back her head, he gently wiped away a few tears Christine hadn't realized she'd shed, shocked to the very core by the love that he saw radiating from her gaze.

_And I'm so grateful to you_

_I'd have lived my whole life through_

_Lost forever_

_If I never knew you_

Erik had given his reasons for the trouble at the Opera House. Now it was her turn to explain. And as she looked into her heart, she realized that she had always loved him, but the initial fear and shock at his reaction to the unmasking combined with the murder of Buquet and the irrational hatred of society had poisoned her mind against him. Yet even as she had left the lair that night with Raoul, she hadn't been able to resist taking one last look over her shoulder.

_I thought our love would be so beautiful_

_Somehow we'd make the whole world bright_

_I never knew that fear and hate could be so strong_

_All they'd leave us were these whispers in the night_

_But still my heart is saying we were right…_

They sang together at last, their voices weaving in and out of one another until they were indistinguishable, a single melody bound together by two separate threads merged into one.

_For, if I never knew you_

_(There's not a moment I regret)_

_If I never knew this love_

_(Since the moment that we met)_

_I would have no inkling of_

_(If our time has gone too fast)_

_How precious life can be _

_(I've lived at last)_

Erik dared to pull her closer, resting his malformed cheek against her dark mass of curls, his heart and his face bare before her as he whispered in her ear.

_And I'm so grateful to you_

_I'd have lived my whole life through_

_Empty as the sky…_

Christine looked up. Their noses were almost touching, but she didn't back away.

_Never knowing why…_

And together they finally admitted what they both knew now was true.

_Lost forever_

_If I never knew you_

Christine closed the distance between them, leaning in until their lips met, softly caressing his mouth with her own until he responded, hesitantly at first, then with a bit more confidence. His aching heart soared at the revelation as he devoured her kisses.

_She loves me! She loves me! She loves me!_

At last, he had to pull away, the sheer overwhelming emotion of it all too much for his heart to handle. He staggered over to the wall, leaning one arm against it as he tried to catch his breath, tears of joy streaming down his cheeks.

"Oh, Christine…Christine…" He turned back to her, taking her gently by the arms. "Let me hear you say it. Just once."

"Promise me, first. Promise me that you won't take the morphine again, and then I will say it."

"I promise."

She kissed his misshapen right cheek, still wet with tears. "I love you." Then she kissed his left cheek. "I love you." And at last, she kissed his lips. "I love you."

[1] The song that Erik sings is "Beautiful Ones" by Poets of the Fall.

[2] Slightly altered version of a quote from Disney's _Pocahontas._ The following song is Mel Gibson & Judy Kuhn's version of "If I Never Knew You" also taken from _Pocahontas_.


	13. Withdrawal

**Chapter Twelve: Withdrawal**

Madame Giry arrived home a bit earlier than usual that evening, having given the cast the afternoon off. Rehearsals had been going exceptionally well, and the cast was by far one of the best she'd ever seen. Unlike Carlotta, Miss Nilsson was a very gracious leading lady who worked hard for the role and was not unwilling to share the spotlight with those who were deserving.

She frowned slightly at the thought. It had not escaped her attention that Erik's new lead soprano bore many similarities to Christine. Of course, no woman, however lovely, would ever be an adequate substitute for Christine in his heart—of that much, she was certain—but the fact that he was trying so hard to hold onto her was rather concerning. Losing Christine the first time had been a devastating blow—worse than the cruelties of the gypsies, worse than the nightmare that was Persia. In the past few months, he had finally begun to heal, but even as he had moved on with his life, she was never far from his stray thoughts. Now that the girl was back in his life, it seemed that things were going well…but for how long? After all that Erik had been through, the ballet mistress worried that losing her a second time—this time permanently—would do irreparable damage to his already bruised and battered heart. Already she had noticed his tendency to avoid the issue when it came up in conversation with Christine, as if by ignoring the facts he could somehow avoid the inevitable. Later, as they sat by the fire, long after Christine and Meg had fallen asleep, he would quietly admit his fears aloud…but he could never do it when the girl in question was present. It was as if he had drawn a line within his mind, an invisible barrier that separated two different realities—one in which he could vent his emotions to a third party and pretend that he was speaking of a fictitious Christine who did not exist, the other in which he remained blissfully and willfully ignorant of her condition. Both realities involved denial, and both would end in heartbreak. But denial is often easier than acceptance and hurts less than the truth. And so, for the moment, she allowed the illusion to continue, if only to bring him temporary relief.

As she entered the little flat, she immediately noticed how quiet it was. She did not find this particularly unusual, as Christine had been restricted to the bed for several days now and seemed more worn out than ever. Erik's presence at the bedside was also unsurprising. What she _did _find perplexing, however, was the manner in which she found him—unmasked and without his wig, holding the girl's hand while she slept as if it were the most natural thing in all the world.

"You're home early," he observed. It was obvious that he was addressing her, but his eyes never left the sleeping figure on the bed.

Madame Giry shook off her surprise, deciding that for now, her questions could wait. "Yes. The cast members have all been practicing very hard, so I gave them the afternoon off."

"Where is Meg?" He wasn't particularly interested in the girl's whereabouts at the moment, but in his time among society, he had learned to make small talk, though he rarely employed it outside of work. Still, it was the polite thing to do.

"With Jeffrey." She paused. "He invited her to meet his parents."

Erik's reply was a half-interested grunt. He knew by now what such customs meant. It came as no surprise, of course, considering how fond they were of one another. But while he was happy for his supposed niece and her soon-to-be-fiancée, he could not suppress a slight bitterness at the revelation. They would have years of happiness together. He would be lucky if he had another two or three weeks with Christine. And even so, it was unlikely he would ever know the joy of wedded bliss. He knew of her feelings now, but he still hadn't asked her the question. Given the circumstances, he wasn't sure if he ever would.

He sniffed, pausing to pull a handkerchief from his pocket and wipe at his eyes and nose, which had been stubbornly dripping for the past three hours. He nearly laughed when he noticed the ballet mistress' brows knit in concern.

"I'm not crying, Antoinette. It's the morphine wearing off. I didn't take a full dose this morning."

She looked surprised. "Oh! Well…that is good news."

"She said she loves me," he whispered.

And then it all made sense. Madame Giry smiled. "I already told you that."

He returned the gesture. It was a faint smile, but it was a smile nonetheless. He sighed. "I promised her I wouldn't take any more, but it's already becoming difficult."

Madame Giry frowned. "Erik, you know that I support you in this, but such an abrupt stop could be dangerous. Your body has become accustomed to the injections. If you completely cut off the supply of morphine, then—"

"I _know_ what happens, Antoinette. You forget I've done this before."

Her expression softened. "I know. I just don't want you to get hurt."

He shrugged. "I'll live. Better to get it over with all at once and let it run its course than to drag things out. It should only last about a week—assuming, of course, that I can stay away from it that long."

She wrung her hands worriedly, unsure of how to approach the topic of Christine's health. "Erik, I know you mean well…and I admire your effort…but are you certain _now_ is the best time for this? Christine is in no position to take care of you, and—"

"Then I'll take care of us both."

She sighed, knowing that once Erik had made up his mind, there was little use in arguing. "Well, I wish you luck. Dinner will be ready in a couple of hours if you get hungry. It may be the last thing you feel like eating for awhile."

xxxx

Of course, Madame Giry was right, and after a restless night of alternately shivering and burning up, Erik was beginning to wish that he hadn't been so adamant about quitting cold turkey. Already he could feel his stomach start to twist, cramping in spasms of pain so sharp it made him gasp for breath. His body was screaming for morphine. But giving in now would mean that Antoinette had won. His pride could only keep him in bed for so long, though, and as another wave of pain crashed over him, he forced himself to stagger out of bed.

_Morphine! Morphine! I NEED morphine!_

_ Remember what you promised Christine…._

_ Just one dose. That's all I need. I won't touch it again._

But when he finally made it to the dresser and shakily pulled open the top drawer, he was surprised to find that the bottle wasn't in its usual place. It only took a fraction of a second for him to figure out who had taken it.

"ANTOINETTE!"

Stumbling to the door, he nearly ran into a rather startled-looking Madame Giry.

"Where did you put it, Antoinette?" he panted. "I know it was you. Christine hasn't left her room since last night."

He knew he must have been a sight. Even if his face hadn't been a horror to look at, his current condition was far from presentable. The clothes he'd slept in from the day before, now rumpled from a night of tossing and turning and wet with sweat, clung uncomfortably close to his skin. His nose was still running, but at the moment he was feeling too ill to bother with it. And what little hair he did have was plastered to his forehead, beads of sweat rolling down his brow as if he'd been working in the hot July sun. He swayed on his feet, both grateful and embarrassed when the ballet mistress reached out to steady him.

"Erik! You shouldn't be out of bed. Lie down before you hurt yourself!"

He reluctantly accepted her assistance, practically collapsing back into the bed when they had crossed the room. But he wasn't ready to give up.

"Tell me where you put it."

"I've hidden it. I knew that you wouldn't be able to resist it for long, so I took the liberty of removing the temptation. This way, you cannot go back on your promise because you are too ill to search for it, and even if you beg her, Christine cannot give it to you because she doesn't know where it is."

Erik groaned. "Sometimes I don't know whether to thank you for being a good friend or curse you for your constant meddling."

The ballet mistress laughed softly. "Christine is still tired this morning, but she is awake. I explained the situation to her and offered to stay home until you were feeling better." He started to protest, but she held up a hand. "But she knew that you would not wish for the production to suffer. I am still a bit uneasy at leaving you both in such a state, but I have tried to make things as easy for you as possible. I have prepared a breakfast and lunch for two—though I doubt you will be eating any of it."

The mere mention of food made his stomach churn, and he gagged slightly at the thought.

She gave him a sympathetic smile. "There is a chamber pot underneath the bed if you need it."

He answered with another pained moan.

She brushed a damp strand of hair out of his face. "Try to rest. It will pass soon."

As she stood to leave, he caught her wrist.

"Antoinette?"

She looked back over her shoulder.

"Thank you."

The ballet mistress smiled. "I am proud of you, Erik."

He gave a half-hearted laugh. "Don't give me any praises yet. I've still got to survive another five or six days of this first."

xxxx

Olivier sat on his perch, warbling happily as Christine slipped a bit of the crust from her toast through the bars of the cage. She smiled as he greedily gobbled up the bread. Though it had been less than a week since they'd found him, she had quickly become fond of the little creature, his morning and evening songs bringing a ray of sunshine into a world that was increasingly becoming bleak and gray. She still didn't feel like leaving the bed for more than half an hour at a time, though for the time being, she had regained enough strength to walk on her own—a good thing, considering that Erik was currently too busy hanging his head over the toilet to be of much help. Although she hadn't gotten out of bed yet this morning—Meg had been kind enough to bring her breakfast in for her, nearly spilling the tray in her enthusiasm as she chatted nonstop about the dinner with Jeffrey—she had heard him repeatedly walk back and forth between the bathroom and his bedroom. Madame Giry had described to her in perhaps more detail than Christine had actually wanted to know the specifics of morphine withdrawal, and although the ballet mistress had assured her that Erik would be fine, she couldn't help but worry.

_Maybe I shouldn't have made him give it up…. I feel awful knowing that he's ill because of me._

Having endured months of constant nauseating headaches, she knew all too well how he was probably feeling, and she felt terribly guilty for not having bothered to check in on him. Setting the tray aside, she forced herself to get out of bed. Every step seemed to take an effort, but she needed to know that Erik would able to properly take care of himself before she would allow herself to rest. Tiptoeing down the hall, she was surprised to find the door to his room already open and Erik curled up in the fetal position on the bed, hugging his arms around his stomach and moaning softly. So great was his discomfort that he didn't seem to notice Christine until she was standing directly over him, gazing down with such concern that it momentarily made him forget his pain. He attempted to sit up but quickly resumed a horizontal position, the abrupt change in his equilibrium making him even queasier than before. He fought back another wave of nausea, determined not to embarrass himself in front of Christine.

"Christine…What are you doing out of bed? Did you need something?"

She sat down on the edge of the bed, frowning. "I just wanted to see if you were alright…." She bit her lip. "Madame Giry told me what happens…. I…I never realized…I-I mean, I suppose I knew it wouldn't be easy for you, but I just didn't ever stop to think that—"

Erik shook his head, immediately regretting the action. He closed his eyes to ward off the dizziness. "It needed to happen sooner or later…. You just made me decide to do it sooner."

Before Christine had the chance to respond, Erik was leaning over the side of the bed and scrambling for the chamber pot, no longer able to suppress the overwhelming urge to vomit. As he lay heaving into the pot, he felt a gentle pair of hands begin to massage his shoulders, rubbing soothing circles down his back. The twisted welts from where his back had been repeatedly carved open by the whip would surely be detected, but he didn't have the energy or the will to push her hand away. When at last he was able to catch his breath, he closed his eyes, certain that he would die of humiliation if he saw the look on her face.

"Forgive me," he panted.

Christine's only response was to give his shoulders a gentle squeeze as he sank tiredly back into the pillows. When he felt the bed shift, he looked up, horrified to see that she had stooped down to collect the chamber pot, intent on emptying its contents before he experienced another bout of nausea.

"Christine, don't," he begged. "I'll get it later."

"When?" she challenged. "Erik, you don't even feel like sitting up, much less walking. _I'm_ the reason you're feeling like this. _I'll_ take care of it."

"No," he countered, "my own _stupidity_ is the reason I'm feeling like this. I've had to break the habit before. I should have known better than to start taking it again." He rolled over onto one side, then the other, unable to find a comfortable position. "You're tired, Christine. You need rest. I'd rather you take care of _yourself_ instead of taking care of _me_. I'll manage."

She frowned. "You've been taking care of me for weeks now. The least I can do is to return the favor."

He tensed suddenly, stifling a scream of pain. It felt as though a knife had been twisted in his gut.

Christine returned to her seat beside him on the bed, taking his hand in a comforting gesture. His palm was sweaty, she noticed—though whether it was from the illness or his nerves she wasn't entirely sure.

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Well," he teased, "you could give me some more morphine…if we knew where it was…but other than that, no. I'm afraid it just has to run its course."

She tried to hide a yawn, but Erik noticed it anyway. Despite his own discomfort, he smiled weakly.

"Rest, Christine. I'll be fine."

"But what if you _need_ me?" she protested.

"Then I'll wake you."

It was a lie, of course. The worst of the withdrawal symptoms were yet to come, and although it touched him deeply to know that Christine was concerned for his health, he couldn't bear to let her see him in such a state. In the past, it had eventually gotten to the point where he could no longer control his basic bodily functions…and while the thought of Christine cleaning up after him was embarrassing enough, the thought of her coming in to find him in saturated sheets made him want to go crawl into a hole and die. He felt his cheeks flush.

Christine sighed, her fatigue momentarily winning out over her concern. She wasn't foolish enough to believe the fib, but it was obvious that he was uncomfortable with the idea of her being his nursemaid, and she was too tired to argue.

"Alright."

Smiling softly, she reluctantly obeyed. Standing to leave, she hesitated before leaning over and pressing a gentle kiss to his fevered brow. Then, without another word, she turned and walked out of the room, leaving Erik once again alone in his misery. Sighing, he curled up into a ball beneath the sheets and braced himself for what was still to come.


	14. Heaven by the Sea

**Chapter Thirteen: Heaven by the Sea**

The following days were a blur for Erik, one torturous day merging into the next until he couldn't recall what day of the week it was or how long he'd been living in this semi-delusional dehydrated haze. True to her word, Christine obeyed Erik's wishes and did not leave her room except to obtain food or use the restroom, giving him the privacy that he desired. Erik, however, made certain of the fact by taking the extra precaution of locking his door—a provision which he ultimately had to terminate after several urgent trips to the restroom made him realize what a hindrance it could be. Mercifully, Christine slept through the majority of the more shameful moments of his illness, including one instance of multiple sheet changes within the same day—though he was beginning to think she could sleep through a hurricane with that bird's incessant chirping. Normally, it wouldn't have bothered him, but with the pounding of his head and the added irritability of withdrawal combined with a lack of sleep, he was starting to wonder if the stupid thing would ever shut up. But after five days had passed, he finally began to feel like himself again, and when he opened his eyes on the morning of the sixth, he was able to breathe a much needed sigh of relief.

The brisk rapping of a brass handled cane against the door caught his attention.

"Erik? May I come in?"

The ballet mistress was somewhat startled when, to her great surprise, the man in question answered the door, looking a bit thinner than usual but otherwise no worse for the wear.

She smiled. "Well, you certainly seem to be feeling better."

"It's over," he breathed. "It's finally over."

Madame Giry frowned worriedly, tugging at the loose fabric of his shirt. "Oh, Erik, look at you! You've lost so much weight! Your clothes are _hanging_ on you!"

Erik gave a frustrated sigh. "I'm _fine_, Antoinette."

He pretended to be annoyed with her, but in truth, he was grateful for her concern.

Madame Giry just smiled and shook her head at his unwillingness to accept her maternal affection. _Just like a stubborn child._

"How is Christine?" he asked suddenly. "Is she awake yet?"

The ballet mistress' smile disappeared as quickly as it had come, replaced by a look so sorrowful that for a moment, he wondered whether she might cry. "Erik…there is something you need to know. The past few days have been difficult for _all_ of us…including Christine."

Erik felt the icy hand of fear clench around his heart. "S-She isn't…." He couldn't articulate the words. "Please tell me she isn't…"

She laid a comforting hand on his arm. "No." She dropped her gaze. "Not yet."

"Not yet," he whispered. The words were spoken without emotion. He felt paralyzed, numb. "What do you mean, 'not yet'?"

"Erik…she is not well. She doesn't have many days left."

Erik clenched his fists, turning his back to the door. "I _know_ that, Antoinette," he growled. "You needn't remind me."

"Yes, you _do_ know it in your mind," she conceded. "But your heart has not accepted it. You may _know _it, but you don't _believe_ it. There is a difference."

He leaned wearily against the bedpost. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you need to hear it." She was quiet for a moment. "She can barely walk now, Erik—even with assistance. And yours were not the only bed sheets that mysteriously went missing."

He whirled around. "Why didn't you _tell_ me?"

Madame Giry shook her head. "You were in no condition to assist her."

"I could have _tried_," he insisted. "Why didn't _she_ tell me?"

The ballet mistress crossed her arms. "Would _you_ have asked _her_ for help?"

He looked down ashamedly. "No. I suppose not." He sighed. "I've wasted almost an entire week—a week I _should _have spent with her!"

"It was not wasted," she corrected him. "You were fulfilling her request—keeping your promise. The time that is necessary to fulfill an act of love should never be considered anything but time well spent."

He knew there was wisdom in her words, but it did little to console him. "May I see her?"

Madame Giry nodded. "Of course. But, Erik—"

As he brushed past her the doorway, he felt her grab his arm. He looked down at her.

"Try not to get your hopes up."

xxxx

Erik had seen many horrors in his life. From the time he'd first caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror as a child, death had always seemed to follow him, lurking in the shadows like a demon straight from hell. It was no surprise that those who crossed his path often met a swift demise when he looked like Death incarnate, the misshapen skin on the right side of his face hardly indistinguishable from the rotting flesh of a corpse. Yet not even Persia, where the streets ran red with the blood of the innocent and justice was dependent on whim rather than wisdom, could have prepared him for what lay behind the bedroom door.

Christine looked incredibly small against the mound of pillows that supported her, her delicate frame appearing even more fragile than before. The circles under her eyes had darkened while her luscious pink lips had faded to a sickly ashen gray. Her naturally pale skin seemed to have lost what little color it had, the sweet blush that typically graced her cheeks so conspicuously absent that she was hardly a shade darker than the sheets, making the dark ringlets that framed her cheeks stand out even more than usual. She was elegantly beautiful—but in the way that one might expect a sleeping Snow White to appear beneath her coffin made of glass, not the way a healthy eighteen year-old girl should look. If not for her shallow breathing, he might have mistaken her for dead.

He gently touched her hand. "Christine…"

Her eyes fluttered open at the sound of her name. She smiled tiredly. "You did it." She drew a shaky breathy. "I knew you could do it."

Erik felt his eyes fill up with tears. Christine was practically on her death bed, and here she was worrying about him. He could find no words to make an adequate reply, choosing instead to sit at the bed's edge and simply hold her hand as she had done for him several days before.

_Was it really less than a week ago that we sang of love? How quickly things can change in such a small amount of time…._

"When can we go to the sea, Erik? You promised me a day by the sea."

"Tomorrow," he replied hoarsely. "Tomorrow we'll go to the sea."

She frowned. "Must we wait until tomorrow? Tomorrow seems so far away…. Take me there today, won't you? Just for a little while…."

Her voice betrayed a tiredness that no earthly sleep could cure. The rational part of his mind told him that such an extended period out in the cold would only accelerate the rate of her decline, but the other part of him felt obligated to comply with her request. Once before he had promised her that they would go "tomorrow," but that tomorrow was now a fading memory, and his promise still rang empty. To make such a promise now would hardly be fair, for in her world, tomorrow might not exist.

He swallowed back the lump that had clogged his throat. "Alright." It was hard for him to appear excited about the outing, but for her sake, he forced a smile. "Today it is, then."

When she returned the smile, it was all he could do to keep from breaking down.

xxxx

Cool, salty air wafted in from over the harbor. Despite the lateness of the hour, the sun's rays had yet to burn away the patches of morning mist that lingered in the air like the spirits of lost sailors hovering around the ships, their mighty masts and statuesque smokestacks cloaked in shrouds of silver that melted into the grayness of the winter sky and sea. Somewhere in the distance, a ship's bell rang, the only manmade sound amid the symphony of the sea, the hushed lull of the waves against the rocks mingling with the lonely cry of the gulls.

The earth felt soft beneath his feet, his custom leather shoes sinking slightly in the sand. In spite of her condition, Christine had insisted on walking at least part of the way, though she stumbled several times, clinging to him for support to keep from falling. It was a valiant effort on her part, but she tired quickly, and Erik eventually had to resort to carrying her. The place where their two sets of footprints suddenly changed into one seemed a morbid harbinger of things yet to come. Already the sea was eroding her steps, dissolving all traces of her presence. Soon it would be as though she never existed at all, and only one set of tracks would remain. Erik tried not to think about it, but he couldn't resist a quick glance over his shoulders. He shuddered.

He felt Christine snuggle closer to his chest, shifting slightly in his arms. She undoubtedly was cold—she'd never had much meat on her bones to begin with, and the illness had taken a definite toll on her body. Of course, it didn't help that she was barefoot, her lily-white legs dangling temptingly over the crook of his arm, white stockings and red shoes forgotten somewhere on the rocks above where they'd stopped to rest. He supposed he should have forbidden it, knowing the dangers of the cold, but she had wanted to walk in the sea unhindered, and he didn't have the heart to deny her the request. He had looked away, then, out of respect, but she caught him off guard when she asked for his assistance—and he nearly refused. He felt certain he must have turned the color of a tomato, but, trembling, he had eventually complied. Later he'd blame the shaking on the cold. Though innocent in nature, it was such an incredibly intimate action that it made him terribly uncomfortable. As he'd slipped off each shoe, he laid them carefully aside, handling them as though they were made of glass rather than stiff fabric and leather. The stockings, of course, had been a bit more difficult to remove, as there was no way he could do it without appearing indecent. He'd looked to her, then, for permission before slowly reaching underneath the dress to where the woolen stockings ended just below her knee and gently pulling them off, his gloved fingers running over the smooth skin of her leg with all the tenderness that a man might treat his wife, though his heart was beating wildly with uncertainty. This was something most men, he knew—even most _normal_ men—never did until their wedding night, and ashamedly he'd wondered what it might be like to experience the _other_ things that married couples did. But he'd quickly pushed the thought aside, the dream of marriage, while almost laughable before, now seeming entirely impossible. The ring she had returned to him burned a hole inside his pocket. Though he'd never told her, it had remained on his person since the night of the fire. Once, it had given him strength, fantasies of a future together still lingering somewhere in the back of his mind. Now it mocked him for the memories that he would never make.

The sound of her voice, quiet and subdued, pulled him from his thoughts. "Let's stop here for a moment, shall we? I'm certain you must be getting tired of carrying me."

Erik would have carried her all the way back to Paris if she'd asked him to, but she seemed to have found the spot that she was looking for. Stepping into the shallows, he gently set her down on one of the rocks so that her feet might dangle in the water's edge. His patent leather shoes, of course, were ruined. But he had more important things to worry about right now than his wardrobe.

She release a sigh of relief as her feet slipped into the water, closing her eyes as the waves came rushing in, soaking the hem of her dress and swirling the sand between her toes. The water was ridiculously cold, but it hardly mattered. She wasn't in New York now. She was thousands of miles away on a beach in Perros with a little cottage in the distance and her father calling her in for supper. Erik wished, then, that he had brought his old violin. Perhaps then he could have been the Angel that she needed now one last time, the memory of her father brought to life once again. He supposed he could have sung, but he was loathe to break tranquil silence that had settled itself around her form. This was a piece of Christine's past in which he had had no part, a private memory that was better left locked away inside her heart. And to intrude upon such a personal moment seemed impolite at best and downright disrespectful at the worst.

So he waited patiently, watching her relive a life in which he had not existed, when the vicomte had been a bright-eyed boy of thirteen and the Angel of Music was still restricted to the confines of her father's stories. She was as still as a statue, the rippling of her skirts and the dancing of her curls on the gentle sea breeze the only sign of movement until she parted her lips in song, an ancient Scandinavian lullaby lilting softly over the wharf. She might have been a siren, then, a mermaid on the rocks singing sailors to their doom, but she needn't have bothered; she'd already sunk all the ships he'd ever sent out—even if it hadn't been her intention. Suddenly, she opened her eyes, gasping when she felt the cold wind against her bare skin where a scarf should have been. She looked up just in time to see that the wind had tossed it into the waves where it was now slipping slowly out to sea.

Erik wasn't sure why, but before he had time to think about it, he was out in the waves, wading out until he was up to his waist rescuing the red silk from the sea, a little piece of her that seemed ready to fly away to heaven before the rest of her was prepared to go. He returned in a matter of moments, soaking wet and colder than he'd been in years. But the look of gratitude that he saw in her eyes was worth it.

She took the scarf from his hands carefully, almost reverently, running her fingers over the fabric, suddenly back at the beach in Perros again. There was a strange smile playing on her lips.

"It's funny how history repeats itself…in another time, in another place, with another person…. I suppose I've come full circle now."

Erik didn't fully understand her words, but he had a pretty good guess as to who the 'other person' was. He grit his teeth. "The boy?"

It wasn't said with the malice that she'd been expecting. But she didn't miss the sadness in his voice.

"Yes."

Erik couldn't help but ask her, though he feared the answer. "Would you…would you rather it was him…right now?"

She thought for a moment. "No. I've already told Raoul my goodbyes. I'm glad I'm here with you."

She smiled reassuringly, patting the rock beside her, leaning into his chest when he sat down. A few weeks ago, he would have hesitated to put his arms around her, but now it seemed natural. How he wished that it could stay like this forever! How he wished he had more time!

_Don't leave me, Christine!_

A few feet to the left of the rocks where they were sitting, a small sandpiper scuttled down the beach, his twiggy little legs going faster than his body seemed to be able to catch up, running haphazardly back and forth to avoid being swept away by the waves. Christine smiled at the bird's antics, reminded of their little sparrow friend.

"Olivier's wing is almost healed now," she said. "You'll have to let him go soon. As much as he's come to like living with us, we still can't keep him forever." She kept her head on his chest, eyes never leaving the shoreline. She sighed. "But he'll be happier, you know. He'll be able to see his family again. He'll be free…."

Erik couldn't bring himself to respond. This wasn't just about the bird.

She sighed again. "You know, I've always fancied heaven looking like my old home by the sea. I know there are supposed to be mansions and streets of gold—and I'm sure they're lovely—but I think a nice little cottage on the coast would suit me just fine. What do you suppose heaven looks like, Erik?"

"I've never given it much thought," he answered honestly. "I was never really sure if it existed. Besides, I knew that I'd never get the chance to see it if it did."

"So…you don't believe?" Her heart sank. She'd had a feeling ever since he'd first avoided her attempt to invite him to mass, but to hear him admit it out loud was a burden she wasn't ready to bear.

He paused. "I don't know. In the past, my experiences with the church have been…less than favorable."

She looked at him questioningly, urging him to continue.

He sighed. "The priest that I was named after—Father Mansart—he was the only friend I had growing up—a sort of father-figure, I suppose. He taught me the words of God, and he taught me how to sing. He made me believe that, despite my deformity, I could be something great…." He drew a shaky breath. "But then…then one day…everything changed. I was a horribly insolent child at times. Starving for my mother's attention, I was willing to do almost _anything_ just to get her to notice me. One day I took things a bit too far, and it led them to believe that I was in need of an _exorcism._"

He heard Christine give a little gasp, but she made no further response.

"I'd never felt so betrayed in all my life. Not until—" He stopped himself before he said too much.

_Until _you _betrayed me._

He didn't have to say the words for Christine to understand. She picked at the wet scarf in her lap. "I'm sorry."

His arms instinctively tightened around her shoulders. "I know."

Christine hesitated. "Perhaps the priest was doing what he thought was best for you at the time. Sometimes…sometimes people who are well-meaning do not see the harm that they are causing and unintentionally drive the ones they love away. Sometimes people confuse human practices with the law of God, and what is meant to be an act of love is not perceived as such. I'm not saying that what he did was right, by any means," she hurriedly added, "but perhaps in his mind it was."

Erik grunted a response. As much as he hated the priest for what he had done, he would be a hypocrite if he did not acknowledge the truth within her statement, his own misguided love having caused Christine's career at the Opera to become a living nightmare. In his blind infatuation, killing a rival had seemed acceptable enough, though it would have deeply hurt Christine. Perhaps the priest, in his overzealous love for God, had made a similar mistake. If that was the case, then perhaps, in time, he could come to forgive the old priest. But while priests could make mistakes, he knew that God did not. And if he was not a mistake, then why had he been born with such a face? Christine had said that it was his face which had brought him to her, and he supposed that she was right, for what handsome man with such talent as he possessed would waste his life locked away underground wandering the sewers and playing practical jokes on the Opera's incompetent managers? If he had been born a handsome man, he might have been dubbed one of the century's greatest composers; he might have been rich; he might have had ladies falling at his feet…but would he have Christine? Looking back on all the torture, on all the heartache that he'd had to endure to bring him to his current state, he asked himself if Christine was truly worth it, if he would do it all again for her…and the answer was a resounding 'yes.' She was here, now, of her own free will, and she had told him that she loved him…. How could he curse God when He had given him the only thing that he had ever wanted, however short their time together might be?

"The trouble with believing in a God, Christine, is knowing that He allows the bad along with the good in life. And while it may or may not be true that all will work out for good in the end, I fear that I would hate Him for taking you away. But I do not wish to hate God, and so it is easier to say that He does not exist." He gently cupped her chin in his right hand, tilting her face up slightly. "And yet, how can I deny that He is real when I have seen Him every day within your eyes?"

His hand fell away from her face, coming to rest over the left hand that was draped across her lap. Taking her hand in his, he began to sing. [1]

_Over the years I've learned to trust in myself_

_Thought I could make it on my own_

_But when I finally felt the need for a friend_

_I found I'd nowhere to go_

_I built a wall so that no one could see_

_The frightened person that really was me_

_Then I saw God shining through your eyes_

_Felt His presence all around you_

_And I found hope I'd never realized_

_Shining through your eyes of love_

Indeed, her eyes were filled with love—so much love that they were near to overflowing. And as he looked into their depths, the masked reflection that he saw staring back at him somehow seemed far less repulsive than he'd once believed.

_You were the only one to see all the hurt_

_I hid down deep in myself_

_You were the only one to sift through the noise_

_To hear my heart cry for help_

_And I could tell just by looking at you_

_That you had something that I needed too_

_Because I saw God shining in your eyes_

_Felt His presence all around you_

_And I found hope I'd never realized_

_Shining through your eyes of love_

_Shining through your eyes of love…._

For a moment, neither spoke, the words of Erik's song still lingering in the air between them. Christine was the first to break the silence.

"I am flattered by your words." She put her hand over his heart. "But I hope that one day you will be able to see God in _here _as well."

He brushed away a tear that had fallen down her cheek.

"You mustn't cry for me, Christine," he chided. "My soul isn't worth your selfless tears."

Another sparkling drop dripped from her lashes. "My tears are hardly selfless, Erik. In fact, I am ashamed to say that my reason for worrying over your soul's eternal fate is a very selfish one, indeed."

"And what reason might that be?"

She looked up into his eyes, those radiant green eyes that seemed to burn her to the very core with more feeling than she had ever known. Surely a man capable of such feeling—of such _love_—was acquainted with the God of love Himself? Somewhere, deep within his heart, she believed that the decision had already been made, yet the clouds of doubt and uncertainty remained. She wished that she could lift them for him so that the Sun might come shining through. But she knew that that was one task he would have to accomplish on his own. She brushed her fingertips against his unmasked cheek.

"That I can't imagine heaven being as beautiful as God intended it to be if I must spend eternity without you."

Erik fingered the ring within his pocket, the answer to the question that had been plaguing his mind suddenly clear. _She said she doesn't want to spend eternity without you… Would she say yes if…? _He licked his lips nervously.

"Christine…may I ask you something?"

Her brows knit in confusion. "Of course."

"Christine, I—"

But then she shivered, and he realized for the first time just how frigid her fingers felt against his cheek. He frowned.

"You're terribly cold, Christine. Perhaps we should return…."

She nodded, wrapping her arms tightly around her chest to fight off the bitter wind. "It would be nice to get warm," she agreed. "What were you going to ask me?"

Erik stood, allowing the ring to slip back into the bottom of his pocket as he moved to pick her up. "Never mind. It was nothing of importance."

[1] The following song is an abbreviated version of "I Saw God Shining Through Your Eyes" from the movie _Love Note._


	15. Silence

**A/N: There's a reason why Meg isn't in this chapter. You'll find out more about that later. In the mean time, you might want to grab a box of tissues. If your keyboard gets wet, don't say I didn't warn you...**

**Chapter Fourteen: Silence**

It was a snowy Sunday afternoon when Madame Giry sent for the priest. Christine had been fighting gallantly for days, but she was tired now—more tired than she had ever been—and every time she closed her eyes, Erik feared it would the last. He hadn't left her side since the day they'd gone down to the sea—not even to sleep. Madame Giry had brought in a chair for him to sit by the bed, which he would occasionally slump down in for a couple of hours' rest, but his sleep was plagued with nightmares of worry, and then he would awaken to a world that was hardly better than the one he had escaped. Some days he would sing to her; others he would simply watch her sleep. He never allowed himself to cry in front of her when she was awake, but more than once when he'd thought everyone else had gone to bed, Madame Giry had seen him quietly weeping over the girl's unnaturally still form, mumbling desperate prayers to a God he'd claimed he'd long forgotten.

The old priest arrived just a few minutes before four o'clock, the merry chiming of the clock on the mantle seeming terribly out of place at such a solemn hour. He looked mildly surprised upon discovering that the girl in question had been left unsupervised in the company of a masked man but made no comment on the impropriety or peculiarity of the situation, merely giving a polite nod to Erik, who regarded the clergyman with a wary glare, unconsciously tightening his grip on Christine's hand. It was obvious that he was uncomfortable in the priest's presence, and under any other circumstances, he likely would have excused himself from the room. But this was what Christine wanted, he knew, and for her sake, he endured it—though not without a few stern glances from Madame Giry. Once, when the priest had asked that Erik move so that he might kneel by the bedside, Erik—unused to being ordered around within confines of his own home—had nearly given the man a very thorough piece of his mind. Only the ballet mistress's gentle urging of the priest to allow him to remain and Christine's pleading gaze kept him from losing his temper entirely. When it came time for the holy water to be sprinkled on the bystanders in the room, he flinched, astonished when it did not burn his skin. He recited the words mechanically, as if by habit. He knew the appropriate response to all the priest's words, but his heart was not in it, and if someone had asked him later to repeat what he had said, he honestly wouldn't have remembered. He felt numb, as if all his senses had been deadened. He couldn't think. He couldn't hear. He couldn't breathe. The room was suddenly much too crowded and much too hot. And for a moment he feared he might actually faint. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Erik, dear, are you alright?" Madame Giry frowned down at him.

Erik set his jaw, ignoring the fact that the exposed side of his face was nearly as white as the mask. "I'm fine," he lied, thankful that he was sitting down.

But inside he was screaming. _Alright?! Christine is on her DEATHBED! Of course I'm not alright!_

The priest cleared his throat awkwardly. "Well, I suppose my work here is done. I shall leave you to your good-byes." He took Christine's left hand between the two of his, smiling sadly. "God be with you, my child."

He turned to leave, nodding briefly first to Erik, then Madame Giry.

"WAIT!"

Three sets of eyes looked up, surprised when they came to rest on the owner of the voice.

Erik took a deep breath, unnerved by their expectant gazes. _It's now or never. _He looked up. "Before you go, there is one other service I would ask you to perform."

The priest smiled kindly. "Of course, my son. And what sort of service might that be?"

He closed his eyes. "A marriage service."

The priest looked rather shocked, as did Madame Giry, but he was careful in his reply. "Well…it is a bit…unorthodox…but if the young lady has no objections, then…."

Erik turned back to Christine, terrified of seeing her reaction. Of all the ways that he'd imagined proposing to her, he'd never pictured this. And he'd certainly never expected an audience! But Christine was fading fast, and a priest was within the vicinity. He knew, now, that a future with her would be impossible, but to know that she was _his_—_truly his_—if only for a moment, would be utter bliss. He had to know.

Slipping softly from the edge of the chair, he knelt down by the side of the bed, gently stroking the back of her hand with his thumb, eyes pleading, _begging_ her to understand. He hesitantly reached into his pocket.

"Christine…I know that I have no right to ask you this. Not after everything that I've done. Especially not now. Not when…." He took a moment to steady his breathing, hating himself for losing his composure in front of a crowd. "I know that promises of forever hold little meaning for you now." He pulled out the ring, holding it out to her with an impossibly shaky hand. "But it would mean the world to me."

Christine's eyes filled up with tears, and Erik held his breath. One word was all it would take to make him happy. One word was all it would take to crush his soul. He knew it wasn't fair to ask her to make such a decision now, but it would haunt him for eternity if he had to spend the rest of his life wondering. If she said yes, he would have to accept that he could not hold onto her forever, and if she said no, he would have to love her anyway. He braced himself for her response.

"I'm sorry…I c-can't give…you…what you want…E-Erik."

Erik felt his heart sink. Now _he_ was the one tearing up.

_You fool. What made you think that she would ever marry the likes of you? _

_She said she loved me…._

_She lied. Look at her, on her _deathbed_, and still she refuses you! Surely she knows that it would be a marriage in name only, yet even so she cannot bear the thought of being wed to such a monstrosity. She would rather DIE than marry you!_

_SHUT UP!_

He felt a hand close around the ring.

"B-but…I will give you…all that I have."

Erik looked up, astonished. For a moment, he couldn't speak. "Y-yes? You said yes?"

She gave him a weak smile. "Yes."

He couldn't hold back a small sob from escaping. Embarrassed by his outburst, he turned away, momentarily releasing her hand to wipe away the tears as best he could.

"I'm sorry," he apologized. "I just…wasn't expecting…." He shook his head. Taking her left hand, he gently slid the ring into place before turning back to the priest. "Will you marry us?"

The priest glanced briefly at Madame Giry, who nodded her approval, her own eyes wet with bittersweet tears for her two protégés. After a moment's hesitation, she slid her hand beneath the collar of her dress, revealing a plain silver chain adorned with a single golden ring. Pulling the necklace over her head, she slipped the ring into her palm and removed the matching ring from the fourth finger of her left hand. She held them out to Erik.

"You will need these."

Erik stared at the rings in her outstretched hand. It was true they had no rings, but…. He looked up at her helplessly. "Antoinette…your husband's ring…I can't…."

She dropped the rings into his palm, closing his fingers around them. "Yes, you can." She smiled through the tears. "That part of my life, as wonderful as it was, is over. Now it is your turn to be happy."

Erik tried to voice his gratitude, but the words seemed to get stuck in his throat, so he merely gave a small nod of thanks, hoping that she would understand.

The ballet mistress turned back to the priest. "Please proceed."

The elderly clergyman, thoroughly moved by all that he had witnessed, gave a sorrowful smile. "Of course. Ordinarily, the marriage service is a fairly lengthy affair, but given the circumstances, we shall have to abbreviate things a bit." He looked at Erik. "May I have your name again, sir?"

"Erik Gérard."

"Very good." He cleared his throat again. "Do you, Erik Gérard, take Christine to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish until death do you part?"

Erik's eyes were shining with a love so strong that Christine feared his heart would burst. "I do."

The priest turned to Christine. "And do you, Christine Daaé, take Erik to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish until death do you part?"

Her eyes were tired, but her smile was bright. "I do."

"Then, by the powers vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. 'What God has joined together let not man separate.'" [1]

If Erik had been in a more cynical mood, he might have commented that God was doing a pretty good job of separating them on His own, but as it was, he was too overwhelmed with emotion to make any remark at all. Slipping the ring onto Christine's finger and guiding her hand to place the ring on his, he looked up to meet the priest's eyes. This man didn't know about his past, nor had he seen what lay beneath the mask, but he _had_ given Erik a chance at happiness, a chance to be like other men. Even knowing that he was not a practicing Catholic. And for that, he had earned both Erik's appreciation and respect.

"Thank you, Father."

The old man smiled. "Congratulations, my son. May God bless you and comfort you through the trials that are to come."

The priest left, then, followed closely by Madame Giry, who saw him to the door, leaving Erik and Christine alone together. Christine was the first to speak, though her voice was incredibly weary.

"Will you…take it…off?"

Of course, he knew she meant the mask. He hadn't been wearing it or the wig lately in her presence, but the doubt still niggling in the back of his mind made him worry that if she saw his face, she would regret her decision. There was a deep sadness in his eyes. "You don't have to see it, Christine," he assured her. "Not if you don't want to."

"I d-didn't…m-marry a mask," she insisted. "Let me…s-see my husband's face."

Erik felt his heart leap for joy. _Husband! She called me husband! I have a wife…_

Slowly, as if he were afraid he might frighten her, he lowered the mask, laying it aside in the chair behind him. Then came the hairpiece, the slick black wig replaced by his naturally thin, soft, honey-brown hair. If the situation had been different, he might have begun to remove other articles of clothing as well, but as things were, he knew that such a thing would not be possible. He wanted her terribly now—longed for her now that she was his—but he would not ask it of her. Not now. Instead, he took a seat on the bed beside her, holding her hand in his lap and running his fingers through her hair.

Christine seemed to sense his unease. "E-Erik…I w-want…to be…your wife…i-in every sense of the word…but, I'm so…tired…. P-perhaps when I wake up…."

It was a game of make-believe now, and they both knew it, yet they clung to it anyway. Erik had given up on trying to stop the tears that were steadily dripping down his cheeks. He leaned over her, kissing her softly on the forehead, still amazed that she would allow him to get so close.

"Shhhhhh….Rest, Christine."

Christine closed her eyes. "T-tell me…a-about our future, Erik."

He swallowed hard. "We're going to have a nice, two-story house overlooking the sea. I'm going to design and build it myself with every brick and every board with you in mind." It was difficult to imagine what sort of life they might have led when they had come so close to reaching their dream, but he continued to spin a tale. "You're going to start singing again at the new opera house. You will be the star of every show, and people will come from all over the world to hear your voice." He was trying to keep his own voice from breaking, but it was no use. "We're going to have a beautiful daughter who looks just like you and a brilliant son named after your father and…" He let out another choked sob. "Christine…Christine, I love you. I love you so much."

She opened her eyes, lifting a frail hand to touch his face. He could feel the cool metal of the golden band around her finger against the deformed skin of his cheek, hot and sticky with his tears. She was looking in the direction of his face, but her eyes were far away, as if she was staring into the distance, looking at something that he could not see.

"I l-love…you, too, Erik."

As she closed her eyes, she let out a contented sigh, the hand she'd held to his cheek gradually going slack. Erik held her close, rocking her slowly back and forth, listening to the music of her heartbeat, the final symphony of a life well-lived, until it came to a close. Laying her down gently against the pillows, he kissed her on the lips, tears splattering against her porcelain cheeks. If it had been a fairytale, the tears would have healed her, the kiss would have transformed him, and her eyes would have fluttered open once more. But his face remained the same as ever. And Christine did not wake up. On his little perch beside the bed, Olivier was uncharacteristically quiet, his dark eyes blinking in confusion as he tilted his head to the side, watching as Erik's body shook with soundless sobs. The silence was deafening.

[1] Mark 10:9


	16. Grief

**Chapter Fifteen: Grief**

Meg arrived back at the apartment just as the sun dipped down below the city's skyline. She had spent the afternoon with Jeffrey, strolling around a snowy Central Park and taking an early dinner with his parents, who had an accent so thick that she could barely understand them. More than once she'd had to rely on Jeffrey to translate, turning to him with a helplessly confused expression that made him laugh out loud. Nevertheless, it had been a pleasant evening. After dinner, he had taken her aside out on the balcony and in the fading light of the sun dropped down on bended knee. She glanced down at the diamond ring on her left hand, grinning widely. It was a tiny little thing, quite simple in its setting, but it was enough. He could have given her a brass ring with a stone made of cut glass for all she cared. It was the promise _behind_ the ring that had her in such high spirits. Her characteristically bubbly personality was even more effervescent that night, and she felt as though she might burst with excitement if she didn't share the good news soon. Christine had been feeling particularly low that morning when she and her mother had left for church, and she thought the news might cheer her up.

_I can't wait to tell her! She's going to be so excited!_

Bounding over the threshold like a lively young gazelle, she skipped over to the bedroom, the extra spring in her step carried elegantly by her dancer's legs.

"Oh, Christine! I have the most wonderful news! You'll never guess what happ—"

She froze in front of the doorway, her usually feather-light feet feeling suddenly as if they were made of lead. The words she had been about to say died away in her throat, shriveling up and leaving a sour taste in the back of her mouth. She brought a hand to her mouth, absolutely horrified by what she saw.

On one side of the bed her mother stood, the ballet mistress' typically impassive face glistening with tears. Erik sat nearby on the edge of the bed holding an impossibly pale hand sticking out from underneath the sheets. She had never really seen him up close without the mask and wig, and for a moment, she felt a brief surge of fear and revulsion, but the intense pain she saw reflected in his eyes was enough to make her forget his twisted features. It wasn't his face that caught her attention, however. It was the still figure on the bed. There was a sheet draped over her face, but a few dark curls still stuck out to the side.

Erik saw the horror in her eyes and immediately assumed it was his face that had caused her such distress, but he made no move to cover himself. At the moment, he was too emotionally drained to care. He'd expected her to flee the room, but instead she brushed right past him, running into her mother's arms and wrapping her in a fierce embrace.

"Oh, Maman!" she sobbed. "Maman, no!"

Madame Giry stroked her daughter's blonde curls, blinking back her own tears. "Shhh… Hush, my dear."

"I never got to say good-bye," she sniffed. She felt her mother's hand on her face, brushing away one of the tears. She frowned suddenly when she realized that something was missing. "Where's your ring?"

The ballet mistress smiled sadly. "Where it belongs."

Meg continued to frown. "I…don't understand…." Just then she noticed the glint of gold out of the corner of her eye. She stared at Erik's hand. "Is…is that Father's ring?"

And then she understood.

"You may have them back, if you wish." Erik's voice was painfully hoarse, a far cry from the deep, rich timbre with which she was accustomed. It was obvious that he, too, had been weeping, though at the moment he was fighting it. "By all rights they should have gone to you."

Meg couldn't deny a slight pang of disappointment, knowing that her mother had given away the rings without first consulting her, but in the back of her mind, she knew that such a thing would not have been possible. While it saddened her that she would no longer be able to inherit the cherished items, to take away such a gift in the wake of his mourning would be unfair, and to pry her mother's ring from the cold, dead fingers of her best friend seemed frightfully disrespectful, reminiscent of grave robbery. She shook her head, realizing that if someone else had to have the rings, she couldn't think of a couple more deserving. She put her hand over his.

"Keep it." The tears were still falling, but she was smiling through them. "I know how much you loved her…and how much she loved you."

Erik nearly lost his composure again, silently thanking the girl for understanding. _She's so much like her mother, _he mused. _Christine was lucky to have her as a friend. _Then he noticed the diamond. He looked up.

"That's why I was late getting back," she explained. "I wanted to tell Christine, but…." Her lip was quivering.

He swallowed back a wave of jealousy, knowing that their wedding night would be much different from his own. "She would have been happy for you."

"Would…would it be alright if he came to the funeral?" she asked tentatively, her voice cracking with emotion.

It would hurt, he knew, to see them together when his own love was lying cold and still within the casket. But the boy was practically family now, and Meg had been just as important in Christine's life as he had—if not more so. He had no right to bar her from bringing her fiancée if she wished.

"Of course."

xxxx

The funeral was a rather quiet affair. Because Christine had only been in New York a few weeks and had rarely left the house, she hadn't had the time to make any new friends. Besides the priest—the same one who had married them and who was head of the little church that the Girys regularly attended—Erik counted a total of only four mourners: Antoinette, Meg, Jeffrey, and himself. It almost seemed like an insult; had she died at home in France, half of Paris would have attended the service to honor "La Daaé." But here, she was relatively unknown—just another headstone amid a sea of granite statues. It irked him that she would not be properly recognized, but at least here he didn't have to hide.

He barely heard what the priest was saying. How could he think of angels and heaven and light when his world had been immersed in total darkness? The moment Christine's spark of life had been extinguished, he had felt a piece of his own soul die. Whatever goodness she had found within him was surely gone now. He had reached for some sort of hope within his soul, tried his hardest to find the silver lining on the clouds that blanketed his past, but he just couldn't bring himself to forgive the God who had taken his Christine away.

_There is no God_, he thought bitterly. _Heaven is a fairytale that mothers tell their children so that they will not be afraid of death._

And it was that thought that troubled him more than anything, for if, indeed, there was no heaven and no God, then what had become of Christine? It was one thing to accept that he was destined for hell, to be forever barred from Christine in heaven. It was quite another to accept that Christine had simply ceased to exist. He couldn't bear the thought, and yet it seemed the only logical explanation. Either that or God simply hated him. He almost preferred the latter.

Just the other day he had come so close to believing, so close to thinking that maybe, just maybe, God had a plan even for lowly creatures such as himself. He had wanted to believe Christine's positive view of the world, and for a few brief days, he had been able to see things through her eyes. But not anymore.

_You were wrong, Christine. God doesn't love me._

Erik twisted the scarf in his hands until he thought it would tear. He absolutely refused to lose control of his emotions in such a public setting, though the pressure building up within his chest was nearly suffocating. Not while Meg was watching. And certainly not while Jeffrey was present. He set his jaw firmly, clenching his teeth until it hurt.

_Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry._

Once, when he heard the priest say the words, "beloved _wife_ and friend," he thought he was going to choke, but he somehow managed to swallow the sob that had been creeping up his throat, though he couldn't suppress a slight shudder. He didn't say "Amen" when the priest concluded his prayer, nor did he address Jeffrey when the boy offered his condolences. He didn't sing a requiem for her or whisper words of love over the grave—not even after everyone else had left. His throat was uncomfortably tight, and he knew that if he opened his mouth to speak a sob would escape. And then another. And then another. And then he wouldn't be able to stop. So in the end, he decided not to speak at all, enduring the affair with what appeared to be stoic indifference, a red rose with a black ribbon tied to the stem placed on the grave the only sign he even cared about the deceased at all.

But Madame Giry knew better. Long after Meg had gone to bed, she found him standing near the fireplace gripping the mantle so hard his knuckles were white, head bowed with his lips drawn in a firm line and his eyes squeezed tightly shut. He was trying so hard to be strong, trying to be the man of the house while the Girys grieved, but his fragile heart was in desperate need of relief, and the moment the ballet mistress touched his shoulder, he shattered, falling to his knees and convulsing with the anguished cries he could no longer hold back. Horrible gasping, choking, shuddering sobs shook his frame as he nearly doubled over in pain, clutching at his sides as though he feared he might fall apart if he didn't physically hold himself together. It was loud, he knew. Meg would hear. The people living in the flats above and below them would hear. But at this point he couldn't bring himself to care. It hurt too much to keep pretending. Hot tears, harsh and unbidden, slid down the inside of the mask, and he tore it off, casting the offensive article aside as he lay bare his shame. It didn't matter now. Nothing mattered now.

Madame Giry made no comment on his breakdown. She merely set her cane aside and settled down on the floor beside him, taking him into her arms as she had done many years ago upon his return from Persia. And Erik clung to her like a lifeline, sobbing into her shoulder as she rocked him back and forth, the stiff black fabric of her dress graciously soaking up his sorrow. She made no attempt to offer him words of comfort. She did not try to tell him that Christine was better off or that the pain would lessen with time. She simply held him and let him cry.

xxxx

When at last the tears subsided and Erik managed to regain control of his breathing, it was nearly dawn. Giving one last shuddering sigh, he slumped over, completely drained of energy. It still hurt, but whereas before the pain had been unbearable, it was now just an empty, dull ache within his chest. Remembering Madame Giry, he hurriedly wiped away the remnants of his tears and moved to retrieve the mask so that he might retain at least _some_ dignity.

"I'm sorry," he apologized. "That was…uncalled for."

"We are _all_ hurting, Erik," she reminded him. "You needn't be ashamed." She glanced up at the clock and sighed. "I suppose I must get ready for work. As they say, 'the show must go on.'"

He watched her as she stood to leave. "I didn't mean to keep you up."

She gave him a small smile. "I doubt I would have slept much anyway." Suddenly, she frowned. "Are you certain you'll feel like coming tonight?"

Sighing, he rubbed his temples. "I don't have much of a choice. It's opening night. Monsieur Abbey is expecting me to be there, as are the theater patrons, the audience, and the cast. I don't think I can get out of it."

The ballet mistress looked worried. "If you'd like for me to speak with Monsieur Abbey, then—"

"No. I'll be there." He lowered his voice. "Better to keep my mind busy now, I think."

She knelt once more by his side, putting a hand on his shoulder. "We'll get through this, Erik. You _will_ survive. I know you won't believe me right now, but it _does_ eventually get easier."

"I'll never stop loving her."

"Nor have I ever stopped loving Henri. Letting go and learning to move on does not mean that it hurts any less or that your feelings wane. It simply means that you keep on living in such a way that would make her proud and learn to be happy again for her sake."

Erik didn't immediately respond. It was a childish question, but he had to ask.

"Does it always hurt like this?"

She smiled gently. "It will always hurt _some_. But how _much_ it hurts depends on how willing you are to let go."

xxxx

Although Erik insisted that he was well enough to go in to work, Madame Giry wouldn't hear of it, suggesting that he get some rest before the big performance that night. It had been a very difficult start to the week, and he was terribly tired. Reluctantly, he agreed, though the thought of staying in the house all day without Christine's usual company nearly brought on a fresh batch of tears. The door to her room remained closed, everything just as she had left it with the exception of Olivier's cage. He couldn't go back in there.

He'd often thought himself immune to the scent of death. Indeed some, like Joseph Buquet, had even spread the rumor that he smelled of death himself, which he supposed was a valid enough statement given how many lives he had taken. But the sickly stench of death that had soaked into the sheets seemed out of place when it was mixed with her sweet perfume. When they had taken the body out of the bed to be prepared for burial, it had been enough to make him physically sick, and he had little doubt that if he went back in, it would happen again. He shuddered at the memory as he collapsed into his own bed. As much as he didn't want to admit it, Madame Giry had been correct to assume that he was much too tired to do anything but rest. Days of sitting up with Christine followed by the stress of her demise had taken a serious toll on his body, and the moment his head hit the pillow, he was out. He spent the remainder of the day in a surprisingly deep and dreamless sleep.

When he finally awoke, he barely had enough time to prepare himself and get over to the Opera House in time for the performance. Mr. Abbey was already waiting for him in Box Five by the time that he arrived. Erik smiled briefly at the irony of the situation as he shook the man's hand and took a seat beside him.

He was a round-faced little man in his late thirties with dark, slicked back hair parted slightly to the side and a thick, bushy mustache that seemed almost too large for his face. From what little time Erik had spent in his company before, he knew that, despite his soft voice and rather quiet demeanor, he was exceptionally gregarious—a quality that usually annoyed him. The man _always_ seemed to dominate the conversation, unable to let a single moment pass in silence. But tonight, Erik was grateful for the man's constant chatter. It kept his mind off of…other things…that he'd really rather not think about.

Abbey smiled as Erik sat down. "Ah, Erik, I was beginning to think you wouldn't show. It would be a great shame to see you go to all this trouble and miss the opening night! They've already given our introduction. I tried to stall for you, but I could only make up excuses for so long!"

Erik pinched the bridge of his nose. He felt a headache coming on. "My apologies. I overslept."

His co-manager grinned good-naturedly. "Still sleeping off the hangover, eh?" He chuckled. "I'm surprised at you, Erik. I thought you didn't _like_ to go out and socialize!"

Erik narrowed his eyes. "I don't."

Abbey raised an eyebrow and smiled conspiratorially. "Ah…a lady friend, then?" He laughed again. "She certainly tired you out!"

If he had still been the Opera Ghost, Erik would have strangled him right then and there. But, he reminded himself, those days were long behind him. This man had been willing to let him essentially control the Opera House while he acted as a figurehead. He had brought publicity to the company's first production and, so far, treated Erik with respect. After all, it wasn't as if the man was deliberately mocking him. If Antoinette hadn't told him the situation, then he had no way of knowing. Erik took a deep, calming breath.

He smiled bitterly. "Something like that, yes."

At long last, the curtain began to rise, and the theater fell into a hushed silence. Even Mr. Abbey, who didn't seem to understand the concept of quiet reflection, lowered his voice. Unfortunately, he didn't stop talking.

"Your sister allowed me to see an advanced demonstration of a few pieces from the performance earlier today," he whispered. "It was quite good. I must say, Erik, I'm impressed with your choice of casting. If tonight is anywhere near the success that I think it will be, we should have no problem at all getting things lined up for the next performance. I was thinking of doing _Roméo et Juliette _or perhaps _Florinda_. What are your thoughts on the matter?"

Erik shrugged, mildly irritated that he was missing the opening sequence. "_Florinda _is good, but _Roméo et Juliette_ is probably more well-known. I think we'd have a better audience for it."

"My thoughts exactly. Now, how do you feel about our current costume director? Because I think…."

Erik sighed. _This is going to be a looooong night._

As expected, Mr. Abbey chattered on for another twenty minutes or so before realizing that he had lost Erik's attention, at which point he rather embarrassedly quieted down. At first, Erik was glad for the change, losing himself to the music as he often did when he was upset. But the longer he listened, the more the tightness in his chest seemed to intensify, the dull ache very quickly escalating to a painful throb.

_She sounds so much like Christine. Why did I have to choose someone for the role who sounds so much like her?_

And then another thought struck him.

_I'll never hear Christine sing again._

When it came time for the lovers' duet, he could bear it no longer, and he quickly stood to leave.

Abbey frowned. "Erik, where are you going? The show's not over yet!"

"Forgive me." His voice was strained, urgent. "I'm suddenly not feeling well."

His companion looked concerned. "Shall I fetch a doctor?"

"No. No, I'll be fine," he assured him. "I think I just need to lie down for a bit. If Antoinette asks where I am, please tell her I've gone home."

Abbey seemed skeptical. "Alright…if you're sure. I hope you get to feeling better."

Erik forced a polite reply. "Thank you."

xxxx

The moment the door to the apartment closed behind him, Erik sunk to the floor, and pulling his knees up to his chest, allowed the tears to come, drowning in fresh waves of grief. It was quieter this time, but just as painful.

_I can't DO this anymore! I can't LIVE without Christine!_

_ God, WHY?! Why are You doing this to me? Is this punishment for all the sins I have committed? Do You even care what I am saying? Are You even there at all? _

"Make it stop hurting," he begged. "_Please_ make it stop hurting."

This was worse than any torture he had ever received. It was as if his beating heart had been ripped out of his chest, leaving a gaping, bleeding wound and a lifeless, empty body.

_Morphine. I NEED morphine._

_ No, you DON'T! You're stronger than that! Be strong for _her_!_

_ I want to die._

_ You PROMISED!_

_ I'm sorry, Christine._

Pushing himself up off the floor, he began to search the house. He headed for the kitchen first, emptying all the cupboards, dumping drawers of silverware out on the floor, but to no avail. In the adjoining living room, he tossed the couch cushions aside, sticking his arm into the crevices along the back and sides. No luck. Next, he headed for Madame Giry's bedroom. He was slightly wary of going through her personal belongings, but the need for morphine ultimately outweighed his desire to respect her privacy. He'd been so busy taking care of Christine for the past week or so that he hadn't had time to dwell on his addictive habit. But now the craving was back, and it was stronger than ever.

_Come on, Antoinette! Where did you put it? I know it's here somewhere. It has to be!_

But after turning her room upside-down, he still hadn't found anything. His efforts became more frantic as he searched the bathroom, knocking over bottles of pills, spilling bath salts and body ointments, throwing towels across the room out of the linen closet. Finally, he checked Meg's room.

_It's not here! But it must be! Where else would she put it? She wouldn't have left it in YOUR room. That would have been pointless. Perhaps she threw it out. There's nowhere else it could be unless…._

He suddenly felt ill.

_No. I'm not going back in that room. I'm not going to go through her things._

But the urge to feel the relief of the drug surging through his veins was stronger than his resolve. His hand hovered over the doorknob, but the moment his fingers touched the cool brass, he instantly withdrew, as if it had burned him. He took a deep, fortifying breath and tried again, slower this time, his hand shaking with trepidation. A soft click let him know that he had been successful. He hesitantly pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The second he stepped in, he could feel a difference in the atmosphere. The air in the room was stagnant with the stench of death, and he gagged at the remembrance of a white sheet and a stiff body—a body that was no longer Christine—but not enough to actually induce vomiting. He shuddered. The room, which had seemed so warm and inviting when Christine had been alive, now seemed colder and darker than the house by the lake had even in the dead of winter. Hesitantly, he turned on the gas lamp, illuminating the room in its soft, yellow-orange glow. He slowly walked over to the desk, running his fingers over the polished surface, almost as if he were caressing it. A bottle of her perfume sat half-empty in the corner, the dizzying scent of roses and lavender and lilac still lingering as if she had been sitting there only moments before. He carefully opened one of the drawers but found it disappointingly empty. He tried another and found a set of fountain pens, several sheets of paper, empty envelopes, and sealing wax. He was about to close the drawer when he noticed another envelope that had slid to the back of the drawer. But this one was sealed. Intrigued by his finding, he picked it up, astonished when he flipped it over and saw his name written in her perfect cursive hand. He ran his fingers over the letters, tracing each stroke of the pen. Pulling out the chair, he sat down at the desk and hooked his finger underneath the lip of the envelope, careful not to tear the paper as he broke the seal. Trembling, he removed the letter, unfolding it with the care with which one might handle an ancient artifact. In the dim light of the gas lamp, he started to read. [1]

_My Dearest Erik,_

_ By the time this letter reaches your hand, I shall be long gone from this earth, departed from this fragile, frail body that every day grows weaker. Lest I should not be able to write later when my strength fails me, I feel impelled to write lines that may fall under your eye when I shall be no more._

_ Forgive me, Erik, for leaving you so soon. If I could choose my own fate, then I would not leave your side; for it was my hope that we would grow old together. Nevertheless, if it is, indeed, God's will for me to die, I want you to know that I am ready, and I am not afraid. Death is just another path—one that we all must take. Do not weep for me when I am gone, Erik, for I am not in some lonesome, desolate place of darkness. I am home. I am on the shores of Perros, playing in the waves. I am in the attic of our old cottage by the sea, listening to my Father play his violin. I am singing with the angels as you always said I would. And I am in the presence of the Lord._

_ There are no tears in heaven, Erik, but while I remain upon this earth, I weep for you. I weep because it pains me to know that I must grieve you yet again. Forgive my many faults, and the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless and foolish I have oftentimes been! How gladly would I wash out with my tears every little spot upon your happiness, and struggle with all the misfortune of this world, to shield you from harm. But I cannot. I must watch you from the spirit land and hover near you, while you buffet the storms of life, and wait with sad patience till we meet to part no more._

A single wet droplet rolled off his cheek and landed on the page, smearing some of the ink as it ran down the page.

_ The memories of the blissful moments I have spent with you come creeping over me now, and I feel most gratified to God and to you that I have enjoyed them so long. And it is hard for me to give them up and burn to ashes the hopes of future years, when God willing, we might have lived and loved together and seen our children grow up to honorable adulthood around us. I will not lie. When first I laid eyes upon your naked face through my own act of treachery, I must ashamedly admit I was afraid—afraid of not only your appearance and your actions but also the strength of feelings that you awakened within my soul. I suppose that even then, somewhere deep within my heart, I knew that I loved you. Back then I was a foolish girl who looked upon the outward appearance as a manifestation of the heart, indecisive and terrified by her own emotions. But now I have seen your soul, and although it is damaged, it is not beyond repair. In our time together, we have both caused each other pain, but know this: the time that I have spent with you resides among my most cherished memories. Though you may not be an angel in the literal sense of the word, you have been my guardian, my protector, and my friend, and I can only hope that someday I will see you as an angel—a REAL angel—again, for heaven would surely not be complete without you. You scoff, I know, but my fervent prayer is that someday you will see yourself for who you are—see that you are precious to God and to me. Precious enough to live for and precious enough to die for, for if it requires my death for you to find meaning in life, then I go only too willingly to the arms of eternity._

The tears were falling now like a soft and steady rain, splattering the paper with his grief. It was becoming difficult for him to read the words from the smearing and from the blur of unshed tears still balancing on his lower lashes. For a moment, he set the letter aside to allow time to compose himself before he continued reading, unwilling to further sully the beautiful words written in her lovely hand with his loathsome tears.

_ But, oh, Erik! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the garish day and in the darkest night—amidst your happiest scenes and gloomiest hours—always, always; and if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath; or the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by. And when my last breath escapes me, it will whisper your name._

_ Erik, do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for you, for we shall meet again, I hope. But not now. No, now you must live. Live and show the world the remarkable man that I have come to know you are. And never forget that I love you._

_Your Angel of Music Forever,_

_ Christine_

Erik dropped his head into his hands, his shoulders shaking violently with every ragged breath he drew as the letter drifted silently to the floor. Dragging himself over to the bed, he curled into a protective little ball, hugging the pillow tightly against his chest and burying his face in the pillowcase, the soft, downy fluff stifling the sound of his sobs as he drifted off to sleep.

[1] Christine's letter borrows HEAVILY from Major Sullivan Ballou's (Union soldier during the Civil War) letter to his wife. There is also a borrowed quote from _Lord of the Rings_. Brownie points for anybody who can spot it! ;)


	17. The Angel of Music

**A/N: ****Well, dear readers, we're getting close! But this is not the end, so don't stop reading yet. There's still a little more to go. I'll try to have the epilogue up sometime tomorrow evening. In the mean time, I hope you like this chapter! Happy reading!**

**~CaptainHooksGirl~**

**Chapter Sixteen: The Angel of Music**

Erik awoke with a start when he heard the knocking on his door…except it wasn't _his_ door at all. It was Christine's. For a moment, he panicked, wondering what on earth he was doing in Christine's bed, horrified by the possibility of what he might have done and terrified by the fact that she was nowhere to be found. But then he noticed the letter on the floor, and he remembered it all. The lights, the dancing, the day by the sea—they all seemed a faraway memory now, overshadowed by the darker thoughts that plagued his mind—the headaches, the seizures, the silence that made him want to scream as he had laid her in the earth. The truth came crashing down on him with the force of a hurricane that shook him to the very core, and he suddenly found it very difficult to breathe.

Another knock on the door made him jump. It was still dark outside, likely only a few hours after he had fallen asleep.

"Erik? Erik, are you in there?"

He recognized the voice as Madame Giry and inwardly groaned. He considered not answering but knew that if he didn't she would come in anyway. Never mind that he had locked the door; she might not know _all_ of his tricks, but she certainly knew how to pick a lock well enough.

He sighed. "Yes."

It was so quiet he wasn't even sure if she had heard him, but a moment later he heard the subtle click of a lock and the turning of a doorknob. He kept his back to the door, embarrassed at having been caught in such a pitiful state of mourning. That he was still clutching the pillow to his chest didn't help matters much, but he couldn't seem to make himself let go, his fingers digging deeper into the down as he heard the door open.

"I don't recall giving you permission to enter." At least his voice was steady.

He couldn't see her response, but if he had to guess, he'd say she probably had her hands on her hips.

"And I don't recall giving _you_ permission to vandalize my room—or the rest of the house, for that matter."

Erik visibly flinched, ducking his head in shame as he realized what a terrible mess the Girys must have come home to.

"I'll clean it up."

The ballet mistress shook her head. "It's being taken of." She sat down on the bed beside him. "We were worried about you, Erik. After the performance, when I realized that you were not in the box with Monsieur Abbey, I knew something was wrong, but I had no idea where you might have gone. When Abbey told me what had happened, I didn't know what to think. There was no telling what you might have done in such a state…." She took a deep breath. "I…I was almost afraid to open the door because I thought…I thought you might have…."

Only then did he realize that she was crying, and a wave of guilt passed over him as he realized that her fears were not unfounded. Had he found the bottle of morphine, he knew he wouldn't have hesitated to use it. He hadn't considered the emotional or financial toll that such an action would have taken on the Girys. To lay one friend to rest was hard enough. To lose two within the same week would have been devastating. Not to mention the fact that the Metropolitan Opera would have been left without a second manager to oversee the productions. He supposed that Antoinette could have taken his place, but it was unlikely that a woman would be allowed to take such a high-ranking position, and Abbey, for all his social charm, didn't know much about the finer points of opera. He silently cursed himself for his foolishness.

"I'm sorry, Antoinette. I didn't mean to worry you. I just…I had to get out of there. I couldn't listen to her anymore. Not when she sounds so much like…." He shook his head, swallowing back the tears that were threatening to fall again. He made an attempt to change the subject. "How was it? Did we get a good reception?"

Madame Giry regarded him thoughtfully. "It went very well, I think. The audience gave them a standing ovation."

"You had no problems, then?"

"Well, there was one…incident…. A piano was dropped somewhere backstage. No one was hurt, but I think the audience may have heard a few of the stagehands cursing." She gave him a small smile. "For a moment, I thought the Opera Ghost might have been up to his old tricks again." [1]

Erik sighed. "There are many ghosts that seem to have followed me."

The ballet mistress frowned. "You were looking for the morphine, weren't you?"

"I know it's a coward's way out, but I have never been a brave man." He paused. "You threw it out, didn't you? I tore this place apart, and I still never found it."

"Yes, I did."

"Why did you tell me you hid it?"

"Because I knew that you would never have allowed me to throw it out. You would have dug through the garbage until you found it if necessary."

The corners of his lips lifted slightly. "You know me too well, Antoinette. You're right. I would have been terribly angry with you—I suppose I still _am_—but thank you." He sighed again. "I don't know what to do. I'm afraid to leave the house again because everything out there reminds me of her. But everything here does, too. It seems as though no matter what I do, I can't escape her memory…nor am I certain that I wish to. It hurts to remember, and yet I don't want to forget. I'm so confused."

He had finally dropped the pillow and was playing with the ring on his left hand instead, turning it back and forth around his finger as if it somehow helped him think. He caught the ballet mistress staring at his hands and immediately stopped, remembering that the ring held significance for her, too. In all honesty, he didn't feel worthy enough to wear it, but she had given it to him freely, and to return such a heartfelt gift would be considered disrespectful. He looked down guiltily.

Madame Giry said nothing but took his hand in hers, rubbing her thumb across his fingers in a soothing gesture. When she touched the ring, Erik thought her thumb lingered just a little bit longer than it had on the other fingers, but it happened so quickly it could have easily been his imagination. Perhaps she had meant to give them _both_ the strength they needed.

"She left a letter for me," he added quietly. He nodded toward the desk where the letter still lay as it had fallen in the floor. "You may read it if you wish."

The ballet mistress hesitated for a moment before releasing his hand and crossing the room, stooping slightly to lift the letter from the floor. Taking a seat in the chair by the desk, she allowed her eyes to scan the paper. When at last she looked up through tear-filled eyes, she noticed that Erik had moved so that he was sitting on the foot of the bed on the side nearest her. She held out the folded piece of paper, which he gratefully accepted. For a moment, they both sat in silence. Madame Giry was the first to speak.

"She really loved you, Erik."

"I know." He sighed. "You know, when she agreed to…to _marry_ me…even then I thought perhaps it was just a dying woman's act of pity, but after reading this…." He shook his head. "I just don't understand it…. Of all the men she could have had, why on earth would she choose me?"

She smiled knowingly. "Love doesn't always make sense, Erik. It isn't rational. It can't be fit into the bounds of human understanding because it is a divine gift. Love casts out fear. Love forgives past mistakes and forgets another's faults. Love sees beyond the outward appearance and looks on the heart. And although hearts may get broken, love never dies." [2]

He drew a shaky breath. "But…but what do I do now? Now that…."

She took both his hands in hers and looked into his eyes. "What do you think Christine would have wanted you to do?"

Erik considered her words for a moment, frowning thoughtfully. Suddenly, he stood, snatching his jacket from the back of the chair. He slipped one arm in, shrugging it over his shoulder. "Help me find my mask, Antoinette."

The ballet mistress was taken aback. "Erik, it's after midnight! Whatever it is, surely it can wait until morning?"

But Erik seemed not to have heard her. "What time does the church open?"

Madame Giry furrowed her brow. "The doors are always open, but the priest will likely not be in for several hours." She frowned. "Why?"

He attempted to smooth down the hairs of his wig, having realized belatedly that he had slept in it. "There's something I need to discuss with him."

Her eyebrows shot up even farther than Erik had thought possible.

He barked a short half-laugh. "Don't start preparing for the end of the world yet, Antoinette. I merely said I was going to have a conversation with the man. That doesn't mean my religious views have changed."

xxxx

Erik ran his fingers over the finely carved oak of the chapel doors, wondering for the thousandth time that night what he was doing. He reached for the doorknob, cursing in frustration when he realized that his hand was shaking, then mentally rebuking himself for swearing just outside a church. Although he didn't want to admit it, the truth was that Erik was absolutely terrified.

_Maybe I should wait until morning. Antoinette said he wouldn't be in yet…._

_No! If you leave now, you won't come back, and you know it! Besides, you're already at the church._

_I have no idea what I'm doing or what I'm going to say. Why am I even here? _

_You're HERE because of Christine._

Of course, there was no arguing that point. He'd once said that he would do anything for Christine, but looking back on it, he ashamedly admitted, that hadn't been entirely true. Despite her pleading, he had never been able to bring himself to attend mass. Every week he had come up with some excuse to put things off. Now he had lost the opportunity to ever attend a service with her, and he hated himself for it. After all that she had done for him, speaking with the priest seemed the least that he could do. But it didn't make the process any easier.

As he stepped into the vestibule, he couldn't suppress a slightly audible gasp of awe at the sheer architectural beauty of the building, which he had always found rather plain on the outside. In the pale light of the moon streaming through the stained-glass windows, his catlike eyes could clearly see every detail of the room from the deep red carpet that led down the aisle to the painted angels on the ceiling that seemed to hover somewhere between heaven and earth. Stepping into the sanctuary, he paused beneath a magnificent archway balanced on pillars of polished marble, touching the cool stone surface with a sort of painful reverence, instantly reminded of Giovanni.

_I wonder how he's doing these days. I do hope he was able to forgive me for what happened. He truly was a good man._

Shaking off the memories, he continued to make his way down the aisle, noting the exquisite carving on the back and sides of the benches and the ornate chandeliers hanging low with unlit candles, their pale stalks giving off a ghostly glow in the moonlight. At last, he reached the very back of the room where a staggered set of stairs led to the altar behind which there was an enormous pipe organ underneath a crucifix. His fingers itched to play the instrument, but the melodies that he would bring forth were much too dark for such a sacred place, so he reluctantly resisted the urge. It truly was a dwelling place fit for the King of kings.

Instinctively, he dropped to his knees, feeling suddenly very small and insignificant in the powerful Presence that inexplicably seemed to permeate the room. He recalled the stories that his mother had told him then—stories of a vengeful God who hated sinners—and cowered underneath the eyes of the Almighty, remembering the exorcism. He felt his breathing quicken, short, panicked gasps punctuating the sound of his wildly beating heart. Had the room somehow suddenly become smaller?

_Coming here was a mistake. I should have known better than to think that anything had changed. Everyone else finds you repulsive. Why should God be any different?_

But when his eyes landed on the figure on the cross, his breathing calmed and his brow furrowed in confusion. This was not the tyrannical God of wrath he was familiar with, nor was it the distant, smiling God who spoke empty promises of peace to tormented souls. This was a broken God, bruised and bloodied by the hands of His betrayers, condemned to die a sinner's death though He had done no wrong. And those _eyes_! The look in His eyes was unmistakable. Erik knew those eyes, had been those eyes. They were the eyes of suffering, the eyes of pain and loneliness and shame, eyes that seemed to cry out to the heavens, 'My God, my God! Why have You forsaken Me?' [3]

_And I am one of those betrayers. I am one of those sinners who has condemned countless innocent men to death. I have the blood of thousands on my hands, and the blood of God now stains my heart. Does He truly find me worth dying for? Even after all that I have done?_

Nearly moved to tears by this sudden revelation, Erik dared to lift his voice in song, a desperate prayer in words so poetic they might have been penned by the Psalmist himself. [4]

_Where has the starlight gone?_

_Dark is the day._

_How can I find my way home?_

_Hope is an empty dream_

_Lost to the night._

_Father, I feel so…alone…._

His voice cracked on the last syllable, but he continued.

_You promised You'd be there_

_Whenever I needed You._

_Whenever I call Your name_

_You're not anywhere._

_I'm trying to hold on_

_Just waiting to hear Your voice._

_One word, just a word will do_

_To end this nightmare…._

He bowed his head in the crook of his arm resting against the stairs, the gulping sound of his erratic breathing seeming to echo off the cathedral walls. His cheeks were annoyingly wet again and, being the only one present in the room, he felt safe enough to remove the mask long enough to wipe his face. Suddenly, he froze, realizing he was naked in the Presence of the Lord. Cautiously, he looked up. But the Man on the cross was not staring or pointing or wagging a finger. The logical side of his brain, of course, told him that realistically the statue couldn't have possibly moved anyway, but the other part of him felt ridiculously inclined to believe it was a sign, which of course, did nothing to ease his weeping, the unaccustomed feeling of nonjudgmental acceptance clouding his vision with tears of overwhelming relief.

"Sir?"

A timid feminine voice from behind made him start.

"Sir, are you alright?"

Immediately, he whirled around, throwing his hand up protectively to shield his face and glaring accusingly at whoever had dared to disturb him at such a vulnerable moment. Of course, if he was being fair, the girl had just as much right to be in God's house as he did—probably more. Sighing, he attempted to apologize.

"Forgive me. I was under the impression that I was alo—" His words died on his lips when his eyes landed on the figure's face, her raven hair and olive skin shining in the moonlight as it had that night all those years ago. He backed up. When he finally found his voice, it was a hoarse whisper. "L-Luciana?"

She raised a dark eyebrow in confusion and bit her lower lip. "Er, no…. I'm afraid you must have me confused with someone else. My name is Cecilia."

She picked up the mask from where he had set it aside and held it out to him. Erik eyed her suspiciously through the lattice of his fingers before snatching the mask from her hand and hastily turning away to replace it.

"I'm sorry if I startled you," the girl apologized. "I should have said something earlier, I suppose, but I heard you singing, and I didn't want to interrupt." She smiled. "You have a lovely voice."

Erik frowned. "What are you doing here so early?" Of course, he supposed she could very well have asked him the same question.

She shrugged. "I like to come here sometimes to think. And to listen."

"Listen?" he asked curiously. "Listen to what?"

She made a gesture with a broad sweeping motion of her arm. "To the quietness. Even the silence has a song if you listen close enough." She gave a contented sigh. "I like to imagine that this is what it must have been like before God began creating—quiet, still, dark—a bit like the silence before a performance. And yet it is out of the darkness that we learn to see and out of the silence that songs come to be." [5] She smiled. "Sometimes I think we get so caught up in the music of life that we forget to listen to the Conductor." She paused for a moment. "What about you? Why are you here?"

"In all honesty, I don't know. Looking for answers, I suppose."

"And did you find any?"

"I…don't know…." He sighed. "I'm not sure what I believe anymore."

He noticed, then, that the young woman was staring at his hands and realized that he had been playing with the ring again.

"My…wife…died a few days ago," he explained. It was still hard getting used to calling her his wife, but as much as it hurt to know that she was gone, it was a relief to know that she had finally found him worthy of her affections.

The girl gave him a sympathetic look. She couldn't have been much older than Christine. "I'm so sorry." She hesitated. "Father Davidson mentioned a funeral the other day…. Was…was she the girl who had been accompanying the Girys?"

"Yes." He felt his chest tightening again. He really didn't want to discuss this.

Cecilia gave him an apologetic smile. "She seemed to be a nice girl."

Erik closed his eyes. His voice was painfully strained. "She was."

Cecilia didn't respond immediately, choosing instead to allow him a moment to regain his composure. "It is a wonderful thing to be in love," she said. "Unfortunately, the greatest gifts often come at the highest prices."

For such a young woman, she spoke with great wisdom. Erik couldn't help but wonder if perhaps she knew more than she was letting on.

"You speak from experience," he observed.

She held up her own left hand so that he could see the gleaming band of gold on her fourth finger. "I, too, lost someone dear to me."

Erik frowned thoughtfully. "Your accent…you are Italian, are you not?"

"Yes. I grew up in Rome."

Erik hesitated. It was a long shot, but the girl reminded him so much of Luciana that he couldn't help but wonder. "Did you…. Are you familiar with a man named Giovanni? A mason?"

Cecilia's eyes widened. "Giovanni? Yes, I know him. And earlier you called me…." She gasped. "You're _him_! You're the boy he always talks about! You're Erik!"

Erik nervously twisted the ring on his finger. He hadn't expected her to recognize him. He answered carefully, trying to avoid either confirming or denying her assumption. "What does he say about me?"

She smiled. "He only ever speaks well of you." She paused. "He thought of you as a son, you know. He still does."

Erik swallowed thickly. "Is he…is he well, then?"

"He is. He has retired now, but he is in fairly good health for his age. He misses you, though."

"If…if you ever see him again…will you give him my regards?"

Cecilia smiled again. "Of course."

_How strange,_ Erik thought,_ that I should find someone who knows Giovanni here on the other side of the Atlantic. I suppose it really is a small world._

Cecilia wrapped a dark curl absentmindedly around her finger. "So…do you sing professionally?"

"Not exactly. I'm one of the managers of the new opera house in town, but I don't actually perform."

She frowned. "That's a shame. You know, Father Davidson is looking for a new choir director…. Perhaps you should inquire about the position."

Erik stiffened. "I don't think that would be a very good idea."

"Why not? You certainly seem talented enough."

"It isn't a matter of talent," he growled. "It never has been. Even if I _was_ a practicing Catholic, I'm afraid it would be out of the question."

She shook her head. "I don't understand."

He sighed. "My face...it's…" He swallowed hard. "I have a…a rather severe birth defect." He had no idea why he was confiding so much in a stranger, but once he had started, it was as if he couldn't stop. The girl was surprisingly easy to talk to.

Cecilia shrugged. "So you wear mask? Why should it matter as long as you can sing?"

"But it _does_ matter! Humans are innately curious and unbelievably cruel creatures. They want to know what is behind the mask and have no regard for privacy if it prevents them from satiating their morbid fascination with the macabre." There were angry tears in his eyes. "Do you have any idea how humiliating it is to perform maskless in front of a crowd? To be stared at like you were some sort of wild animal? They might as well have asked me to sing naked!" He took a deep, calming breath. "I have performed publicly only once since then…and it ended rather disastrously. I'd rather not risk it again."

Indeed, the night of _Don Juan_ had hardly been "triumphant" at all. When Christine had removed the mask, he'd felt as though he was experiencing the gypsy circus all over again. He had forgiven her, of course, but that didn't mean it was something he wanted to relive. He imagined standing behind the podium, a sea of faces staring at the mask, hushed whispers rippling through the crowd. It wouldn't matter if the mask was in place or not, he would feel their burning eyes. He shuddered. While a mask might have been appropriate for Don Juan, no respectable church choir director would be able to keep his face hidden forever without arousing suspicion.

Cecilia regarded him thoughtfully. "Back home in Italy, my father owned an orchard of apple trees. As a girl, I used to love going out in the fields and being the first one to pluck the new apples of the season from the branches. Father used to say that people are a lot like apples. You can't always tell by looking at the outside if the inside is rotten. The misshapen ones and the beautiful ones all look the same on the inside. Each one has been given a set of seeds—something that will live on after the apple itself has perished. Whether the apple will provide nourishment and new growth or simply rot away depends on the quality of the fruit itself—not its outward appearance."

"And yet the quality of the fruit itself is dependent on the care the tree was given. An apple cannot choose whether it be rotten or sweet."

"No, it can't. But _you_ can." She pulled a golden-skinned apple from a basket on her arm that he hadn't noticed before, carefully studying the fruit. "The question is, when the time comes, what will you decide?"

As if to prove her point, she tossed the fruit to Erik, who caught it deftly in one hand. But when he looked back up, the girl had vanished.

Erik frowned, glancing around the darkened chapel for any sign of movement. "Cecilia?"

He shook his head. Perhaps the girl had been a figment of his imagination, a product of the emotional and physical exhaustion of a man whose sanity was already frayed…yet the apple in his hand certainly hadn't materialized out of thin air. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and rubbing his tired, sleep-deprived eyes.

_This is it. I'm finally going insane._

It was at this particular moment that his stomach growled, reminding him of just how long it had been since he had actually eaten anything. Frowning, he considered the apple in his hand, its golden skin freckled with tiny pinpricks of brown. It certainly looked real enough, though it was a bit lopsided and lumpy. He ran his thumb over the misshapen skin. This particular apple, it seemed, had more in common with him than he cared to admit. He shook his head again.

_When did I begin reading so much into everything? It's an apple, nothing more. _

When at last he bit into the fruit, he found the flesh surprisingly sweet and crisp, and having not eaten anything in almost a day, he quickly polished it off, arriving at the conclusion that Cecilia must have simply slipped out one of the back doors while he wasn't looking. Or perhaps she, too, was a skilled magician, his rational mind finding it the only other possible explanation. Only after he finished eating did he remember a fact that found him frustratingly puzzled: It wasn't apple season in New York.

xxxx

Morning found Erik lying haphazardly on one of the pews. He hadn't intended to fall asleep, but the events of the past few days had been extremely taxing, and when he'd laid down waiting for the priest to come, his eyelids had quickly grown heavy. He groaned as he sat up. He'd slept in much worse conditions before, but after years of having slept in a bed, a hard wooden bench wasn't exactly comparatively comfortable. Further, he had slept in the mask—something he _never_ did—and had laid on his right side, leaving a deep red impression where the lower lip of the mask met his cheek. He touched it briefly, wincing slightly as he rubbed at the uncomfortable imprint in his skin. Hearing a noise from behind, he quickly turned around to see the old priest sweeping in between some of the pews.

The silver-haired man smiled broadly. "Good morning. I do hope I didn't wake you."

"N-no," Erik answered hesitantly, unsure of how to respond. He frowned. "How long have you been here?"

"A couple of hours. You seemed tired, so I let you rest." He looked concerned. "Have you been here all night?"

Erik looked down shamefully. "Most of it."

The priest laid his broom aside. "Well, I apologize for keeping you waiting. If I'd known you were here, I would have come earlier."

"I didn't mean to interrupt your work. It can wait until later if you're busy."

He waved his hand dismissively. "God is never too busy for His children." He smiled. "What can I do for you, my son?"

Erik studied his hands. He hadn't really thought this far ahead. "I…I suppose I should take confession…but I'm afraid you'll have to lead me through it. I…I've never actually done it before—not formally, anyway."

Erik had never been ashamed of his lack of faith before, but sitting in the presence of the kindly old priest, he suddenly felt extremely inadequate.

The priest nodded understandingly. "I suspected as much. But it is never too late to begin. Would you care to go into the confessional?" He gestured to a wooden booth off to the side.

Erik did not answer but quietly stood, following the priest into the strange little room and seating himself on the appropriate side of the latticed screen.

"Now, typically, you would begin by saying, 'Bless me Father, for I have sinned,' and then tell me how long it has been since your last confession, but since you have already expressed that you have never confessed before, I suppose such a statement would be rather redundant, so you may begin at any time."

Erik shifted uncomfortably. "Father, in my life I have committed many sins, some of which…" He licked his lips. "Some of which are worthy of death—even by mortal standards."

"I am bound by the Seal of the Sacrament not to breathe a word of what you say to _anyone_, even under penalty of death, so rest assured that whatever you have to confess will never leave this room. Only God and I will know."

"Do you swear it?"

"With God as my witness, I give you my word."

Erik thought for a moment, then nodded, satisfied. He sighed. "If I were to count all the sins of my life, I'm afraid we'd be here for quite some time."

On the other side of the screen, the priest smiled encouragingly. "Well, it _is_ eternity at stake. Take as long as you need."

Erik closed his eyes and gave a short, humorless laugh. "Where to begin…? Disobedience to my parents—and authority in general, for that matter. Lying. Stealing. Extortion. Blasphemy. Various accounts of murder. Attempted murder." He opened his eyes, a sardonic smile playing on his lips. "Shall I continue?"

When the priest made no attempt to stop him, he took a deep breath.

"Envy. Jealousy. Lust. Fornication of the mind. And probably anything else you can think of." He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. "So, Father, tell me…. Do you still believe your God can save me?"

"He is not merely _my_ God, dear boy. He is yours as well—whether you believe in Him or not. And, yes, while your list of sins is…rather daunting…I _do_ still believe that He is perfectly capable of saving you—that is, if you will let Him."

"_WHY?!_" Erik was suddenly angry. "Why would He _want_ to save me?! Why would _anyone_ want to?! My own _mother_ would have preferred to see me die!"

The room suddenly became very quiet, his ragged breaths the only sound disturbing the silence. Erik closed his eyes and willed his breathing to calm. He wasn't crying…yet.

The priest shook his head sorrowfully. "You poor boy," he whispered. "You've become so accustomed to being shunned by others that you don't know how to react when they choose to embrace you." He paused. "You're frightened, aren't you? You're afraid to accept a gift offered freely because you've been taught that such things are too good to be true."

Erik kept his eyes downcast. "The world does not take kindly to imperfection."

He sounded tired, defeated.

"God does not require perfection. He only requires that you _try_."

"And what of physical imperfection? Why allow it when He has the means to do otherwise?"

The priest frowned thoughtfully. "Antoinette tells me you are a man of the arts, an architect and a composer of sorts."

"I am."

The older man crossed his arms. "Have you ever created something that you knew to be a masterpiece that others simply did not understand? A piece so unique—so _special_—that to the untrained eye or ear, it would appear to be rubbish? The work of geniuses is frequently misunderstood—the work of God is no exception."

Erik considered his words. They seemed true enough. Indeed, _Don Juan Triumphant_, his personal magnum opus, hadn't been particularly well received. The arrangement of the notes was far more complex than anything either Monsieur Reyer or the cast had ever seen before, causing some of them to label it as garbage...but he knew better. He saw beauty in what they called bizarre. He saw a unique style in what they thought was chaos. Was it possible that God saw something in him that others did not see? That he himself was blind to?

"I wish I could see it," he whispered.

"See what?"

"I wish I could see myself like that…like I was something…something beautiful." He looked up. "What must I do? What penance would you have me offer to make up for my sins?"

The old priest gave him a sympathetic look. "There is no way to reclaim the lives that you have taken or undo what has been done," he said gently. "It is impossible to earn the love of God."

"Then I am to do nothing?!"

The priest smiled. "Penance is more for your benefit than for God's. It is impossible to _earn_ God's love because you already have it. Penance is merely a way of making you more aware of the need for repentance in your life—a remedy for complacence, if you will."

"And what remedy would you suggest?"

"Only this: For every wrong you have done, do something right. For every tear you have caused, share a smile. For every wound you have inflicted, heal another. For all that you have taken, give something of yourself. And for every life that was cut short before it had fulfilled its purpose, live so that you do not miss the purpose in yours." The priest folded his hands in his lap. "That is my advice. Whether you choose to take it or not is up to you."

For a moment, Erik said nothing. _Christine suggested that we were one another's purpose. If her purpose was to lead me here, then perhaps my purpose is to finish what she started…._

"Are you still looking for a choir director?"

Two silver eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Why, yes. Yes, I am. But I'm curious…How did you hear about the position? I've yet to make a public announcement."

"There was a young woman here this morning before you arrived—Cecilia. I spoke with her briefly. She seemed to know you rather well. I assumed she was a member of the congregation."

The priest frowned. "Cecilia? No, I'm afraid I don't know anyone by that name. Are you certain you heard her correctly?"

Now it was Erik's turn to frown. "Yes. Quite certain. She knew about the funeral as well. She spoke as though she knew Antoinette and her daughter."

The priest shook his head. "Well, I'm afraid the only Cecilia I'm familiar with is the saint."

"Saint?"

"Saint Cecilia, the Patroness of Music. She was believed to be of Roman birth and married a pagan named Valerian, who was later converted. He, along with his brother, died as Christian martyrs, and Cecilia was killed soon afterwards."

The priest rambled on about the history of the saint, but Erik had stopped listening. His breath caught in his throat.

"Saint Cecilia," he whispered. "The Angel of Music."

[1] There actually _was_ a piano dropped backstage on opening night for _Faust_. It reminded me of something Erik might do, so I just _had_ to include it!

[2] In addition to the very obvious LND reference, Madame Giry's quote involves some paraphrased biblical quotations, including 1 John 4:18 and 1 Samuel 16:7.

[3] Matthew 27:46

[4] The song that follows is a slightly altered and shortened version of "Endless Night" from the Broadway version of _The Lion King._

[5] Line from "There is Life" by Alison Krauss from the movie _Bambi II_.


	18. Epilogue: Amazing Grace

**Epilogue: Amazing Grace**

_Amazing grace, how sweet the sound_

Erik steps softly through the graveyard, the tender shoots of new grass bending low beneath his boots. The bright green blades are still slick with early morning dew, each prismatic droplet a tremulous glass bead strung on silken spider webs that shimmer like a lady's diamond choker in the pale sunlight that filters through the branches overhead. The birds are singing gaily, warmly greeting the dawn with the hopeful promise of a new day better than the one before. And for once, Erik is inclined to agree with them. In the cage underneath his arm, Olivier flutters anxiously, his newly healed wings itching for flight.

_That saved a wretch like me…._

He stops in front of a small headstone, pink granite engraved with a name he almost doesn't recognize since it has been joined with his own. The grass is thinner here, dark, damp earth the only blanket she will know in her deep and dreamless sleep. Like a scar on the surface of the ground, the Earth is still healing from her most recent wound—another laid to rest too soon and gathered to her bosom. He kneels in the wet dirt and touches his fingers to the stone, tracing every letter lovingly, as if to etch the name within his memory for all eternity.

_I once was lost but now am found_

He lays a flower on the grave—the same flower he has always given her—a red rose tied with a black ribbon around the stem. Every morning he stops by the flower shop and picks up a new one to replace the one he bought the day before so that the rose on her grave is perpetually fresh. It's the same flower shop where they found Olivier, the same place where they'd exchanged stories. Maybe one day, he thinks, he'll plant a rosebush nearby—a red rosebush so that her love can live on forever. His lips twitch upward in a slight smile.

_Was blind but now I see._

Erik opens the cage and in a flurry of feathers, the little sparrow takes off, whirling and wheeling on the breeze, reveling in his freedom as he disappears into the cloudless spring sky, his song caught up on the wind carried off into the heavens. Erik feels the sting of tears pricking his eyes, but they are no longer the bitter tears of mourning. As the song comes to a close, he lifts his gaze skyward, removing the mask and resting it gently against the foot of the gravestone. And for a moment, when he closes his eyes, he feels the soft caress of the sunlight against his wet cheek.

"I see, Christine. I finally see."

**A/N: Well, that's it! I hope you guys have enjoyed reading this as much as I've enjoyed writing it. Thank you so much for all of the favs, reviews, and alerts! Happy reading!**

**~CaptainHooksGirl~**


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